Eventually, she lifts her head. Her green eyes meet mine, and for once she doesn’t look nervous or uncertain. She just looks … present. Here. With me.
I brush a damp strand of hair off her cheek with my thumb.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods. Then she leans in and kisses me -- soft and slow and sweet, nothing like the desperate heat from a few minutes ago. When she pulls back, she rests her forehead against mine again.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “I’m okay.”
I close my eyes and just breathe her in. Outside, the storm has finally passed. Inside, I’m pretty sure something else has just begun.
Chapter 11
Layla
Ihear footsteps on the path before I see him. My body recognizes the rhythm before my eyes do. Hudson appears between the trees carrying a paper bag and two bottled waters. His dark hair is damp again. He’s changed into a clean black T-shirt and worn jeans, boots still muddy at the edges. He looks up at the porch and finds me wearing his sweatshirt.
Something moves through his expression before he locks it down.
“Dinner,” he says, lifting the bag.
My heart does something traitorous. “You brought dinner?”
“Yes, and you’re wearing my shirt again.”
“Is that a problem? I can take it off,” I say smiling.
“You look gorgeous in my sweatshirt. I like it, but I can take it off you as well,” he says with a smirk.
Hudson climbs the steps and sets the bag on the small table between the chairs. He sits in the chair beside mine without crowding me and begins arranging the food.
After a minute I sigh. “Harold texted.”
His hand stills for half a second. “Your ex.”
“Yeah. He said some mail came for me. Offered to scan it.”
Hudson nods slowly. “Does he want you back?”
The question is calm, not jealous.
“No,” I say, surprised by how certain I sound. “He misses the order of us more than he misses me.”
“Did you love him?”
I should resent the question. I don’t.
“Yes. In the beginning. Or I loved what I thought being with him would protect me from.”
“From what?”
The door I’ve kept locked for years creaks open.
I set my food down and twist my fingers in the hem of his sweatshirt. “I can’t have children.”
The words land between us with no drama. Just truth. Hudson goes very still.
“I found out before we got married,” I continue, keeping my eyes on the lake. “Harold knew. He still married me. Everyone acted like that made him noble.” My voice thins. “But sometimes I wondered if he thought he was giving something up. Or if I did.”
