Page 110 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I rolled my eyes. “That’s… ridiculous.”
“It’s adorable,” he said with a sleepy grin. “Come on. We’ll make coffee. Real breakfast. None of that kale and quartz smoothie crap you pretend to like.”
I hesitated. My instinct was to retreat. To rebuild my armor and retreat into a world of neatly folded linen and perfectly organized drawers.
But something in his voice… something in his eyes… made me pause.
“Alright,” I said finally. “Breakfast sounds… lovely.”
“Atta boy,” he said, patting my shoulder as he passed me on the stairs. “Let’s go raid your fridge and judge your egg selection.”
“Oh no,” I said, following him with mock horror. “Not my eggs. Please don’t make fun of my pasture-raised heritage blues.”
He looked over his shoulder, eyes twinkling. “Oh, I’m absolutely going to make fun of your eggs.”
And just like that, we were heading down the steps together, toward my beach house, the morning air wrapping around us like a clean slate.
No declarations. No drama.
Just two men. A shared moment. And the promise of breakfast.
Cecilia
I awoke at precisely 8:12 AM, which for me is a scandalously late start, but I’d taken a second sleeping pill last night after that second glass of red—what was it, a Brunello di Montalcino or something equally dramatic that Hudson unearthed. Honestly, I blame the wine and the charm in equal measure. Hudson Knight was, in short, a catastrophe I approved of.
I slipped into my seafoam-green silk caftan, the one with the hand-beaded neckline and just a whisper of cleavage, not that anyone would see, but one must maintain standards. Then, I padded barefoot across the cool, travertine floors of the beach house—my son’s refuge and my temporary palace. It was still and quiet, just the way I liked it. No Miles clattering around in the kitchen making carrot-turmeric potions. No Hudson playing bad pop music from the ’90s like it was a lifestyle. Just the rhythmic crash of waves beyond the sliding glass doors and the sound of my own exquisite self-awareness.
I sipped my morning cocktail—a spritz of cold-pressed grapefruit juice over crushed ice with just enough vodka to keep my joints loose—and settled myself into the cane-back armchair by the window. The light filtered in like melted butter, glinting off the table Miles had set with yesterday’s leftover floral arrangement. White peonies, sprigs of olive branches, and—God help him—lemons in a bowl.
I took a deep breath. Miles wasn’t home. And if my instincts were worth a damn—and they always are—he hadn’tbeenhome. Not since last night.
I smiled behind my cocktail straw.
He’d stayed at Hudson’s. He had to have.
There was a particular kind of sparkle in his eye when he left here yesterday evening. He’d done that thing he always does when he’s trying not to look hopeful—fussed with his collar, fake-checked his phone, smoothed his hair like a man auditioning for confidence. And Hudson? That rakish little goblin with a million-dollar smile and the manners of a raccoon in a wine bar? He’d looked at my son like he was the last clean towel on Earth.
I approved, of course. In fact, I could hardly think of a better development. Hudson was chaos incarnate, yes, but my son needed that. Miles had spent too long in Owen’s sanitized blandness—living in service to that clean, sterile image of marriage they’d created like it belonged in the window display of a gay Crate & Barrel.
Ugh. Owen.
Owen, who was handsome and successful and catastrophically dull. Owen, who was so obsessed with appearances, he could never see the way Milessufferedunder the pressure. Owen, who cheated and shattered everything—and who, frankly, I never liked, even if I had pretended to for the sake of holiday photos and thank-you notes.
No. Hudson was imperfect. Brash. Messy. But he made my son laugh. After last night’s dinner, and after that walk on the beach the other night—yes, Ididsee them from the upper balcony, silhouetted against the dunes like something from a slightly inebriated romance novel—I knew something had shifted.
And if I knew my son—and I did, better than anyone—he had finally let someonein.
I leaned back in the chair and let the morning sun warm my legs.
“Good for you, baby,” I whispered to the sea breeze. “Fall hard. Scare yourself. Get messy. You deserve it.”
The doorbell rang.
I didn’t move at first. Just stared at the front door, half-hoping it was one of the neighbors bearing croissants or rumors. But then it rang again, more insistently. I sighed, set my glass down with theatrical flair, and floated toward the foyer like a queen attending to peasants.
And then I opened the door.
My smile froze.
