Page 15 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“Yes! Jackson’s basically America’s Gay Prince,” Brody sighed. “The total opposite of Hudson. Kind, philanthropic, vegan. Andhot,too.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You two clearly have a type.”
“Oh, come on,” Grayson said. “Hudson’s a mess, but he’s…iconic.”
“He called me Alphabet Boy,” I said, irritated.
They both burst into laughter.
I smiled faintly.
Let them fawn. I was still the one with the Chardonnay—and the dignity.
Tonight, I tried something new. Stepped outside my comfort zone. Had a laugh. Met fans. Sparred with a half-naked trainwreck.
And I survived.
Not bad for a spontaneous night in RehobothBeach.
Hudson
I knew he looked familiar.
That face—the impossibly smooth skin, those just-so cheekbones, the high-end linen shirt pressed within an inch of its goddamn life. It screamed curated. Like he’d been birthed by a Pinterest board and raised by a Crate & Barrel catalog.
Miles Whitaker. Of fucking course.
I’d seen his face on a few of those smug little social media reels—organizing a fridge with surgical precision or making a three-tiered blood orange panna cotta with organic mint garnish. Whatever. I recognized him, sure. But I wasn’t about tosaythat.
Nah. That would ruin the fun.
So, instead, I did what I do best: poked the bear. The uptight, pastel-wearing, sock-drawer-labeling bear. And holy hell, hesnapped.I’d barely called him Alphabet Boy before he started spitting comebacks, like he’d been waiting his whole life to verbally spar with a hot mess like me.
He said I had a dumpster fire personality. I nearly choked on my own smugness. God, he was adorable in that I-would-absolutely-not-let-him-top-me kind of way.
But let’s be real. Outside this bar? That man was probably about as exciting as a wet sponge in a dry county. He probably vacuumed in straight lines and steamed his pillowcases.
Anyway, after thoroughly poking the control freak hive, I sauntered back to my table where eight guys—yes, eight—were waiting for me like I was the prize sow at a county fair.
“There he is!” one of them—Tyler, maybe, or Trevor—cheered. “What was that? You looked like you were about to throw down.”
“Justflirting,” I said, sliding into my seat with a cocky grin.
“That wasflirting?” another asked, clutching his vodka soda like it had secrets.
“Same thing, babe. Same thing.”
We were loud, we were obnoxious, and we were parked right next to—who else—Mr. Napkin Fold himself.
I glanced over, and there he was, sipping his precious Chardonnay like it came with a background check. I swear, he even held the stem like it might develop fingerprints.
God, I needed a better nickname. Alphabet Boy was solid, but he deserved something…artisanal.
Mr. Napkin Fold. Yes. Because youknowhe has, like, twelve napkin fold techniques memorized. Fan. Bishop’s hat. Rosebud. Probably teaches master classes.
I took a swig from someone’s half-finished drink and let the sugar and vodka do their work.
Then I saw him—Mr. Napkin Fold—start to gather his things. Sweater folded just so. Phone tucked away like a Fabergé egg. Probably logging his wine intake on a wellness app.
