But I don’t move. Neither does he. Something passes between us that has nothing to do with cliffs or water or the fact that I nearly made the worst vacation decision of my life thirty minutes after checking in.
I should be embarrassed. Iamembarrassed. I am also awake in every inch of my body.
Hudson glances toward the lowering sun, then back at me. “Tomorrow morning.”
“What?”
“If you still want to jump, meet me here tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock -- before the crowds. I’ll show you the safe ledge.”
My pulse jumps.
“You’re offering to teach me?”
“I’m offering to make sure you don’t kill yourself trying to prove something.”
“That sounds very close to teaching.”
“Call it what you want.”
“I’m a teacher,” I say. “We’re particular about terminology.”
His eyes move over my face, and he smiles once more. It is devastating.
“What do you teach?”
“Second grade.”
Something warm crosses his expression. “That explains the bossy tone.”
I gape at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I do not have a bossy tone.”
“Sure.”
I should be offended. Maybe I am. It’s hard to tell, because I’m also trying not to smile.
This is absurd. I came here to rest. To read. To prove that the end of my marriage did not mean the end of all interesting things about me.
I did not come here to meet a dark-haired, blue-eyed man at the edge of a cliff and agree to let him tell me when to jump.
But when Hudson looks at me, I feel the cliff behind me and the lake below. I feel the safe little life I already left cracking open wider than before.
“Nine?” I ask.
His gaze holds mine. “Nine.”
“And if I change my mind?”
“Then don’t come.”
“That simple?”
“Yes.”
I nod once. “Okay.”
