Page 20 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I needed sun. I needed the ocean. I needed to bake out this hangover like a rotisserie chicken.
I pulled on a pair of sexy swim trunks—tight, black, slightly shiny. Something that screamed, “I vacation on yachts I don’t own.” Although, technically, I probably could buy one.
I threw on a loose white tank top with a stretched-out collar that exposed just the right amount of collarbone, slapped on a baseball cap (backward, obviously), and slid on my darkest aviators.
Sunscreen. Essential. Not because I cared about skin cancer at the moment, but because I refused to let the sun add premature wrinkles to this moneymaker.
With a half-full bottle of coconut water in one hand and my towel in the other, I kicked open the sliding glass door, letting the hot morning air smack me in the face. The sand was already heating up, the ocean glimmering with that irresistible siren-call shimmer.
Rehoboth Beach really was beautiful. And full of drama. Just like me.
“Let’s do this,” I muttered, stepping barefoot into the sand. Hungover. Horny. And ready for absolutely nothing.
The sand was hot enough to fry an egg—or at least make my hangover feel like it had crawled down onto my feet. I trudged across it with my towel slung over one shoulder, my sunglasses shielding me from both the sun and the consequences of last night. I looked like a walking hangover commercial for bad decisions and coconut-scented regret.
About ten paces down, I spotted the chair-and-umbrella rental guy—tan, shirtless, and jacked in a way that made me think he definitely skipped leg day but got an A+ in thirst traps. I gave him a once-over, then another for good measure.
“Hey, man,” I called, waving a lazy hand. “Set me up somewhere great. I want shade, a breeze, and at least a ten-foot radius from screaming toddlers and people doing CrossFit on the sand.”
He smirked, chewing gum like it was a full-time job. His board shorts were clinging in ways that made me reconsider my life goals.
“You got it, man,” he said, grabbing an umbrella, a chair, and some serious attention from my sunglasses. “You want the padded lounger or the regular?”
“Dude, does this seriously look like an ass that lounges on regular?” I flashed a wink and pulled a fifty-dollar bill from my tote, slipping it into the waistband of his shorts like I was tipping a go-go boy at a Palm Springs pool party.
He raised his eyebrows but didn’t protest. “You’re that guy from the movies, right?”
“Guilty.”
He led me toward a prime spot not far from the water—close enough to hear the waves but far enough that I wouldn’t get sprayed by children building sandcastles like they were inThe Great British Sand-Off.He planted the umbrella, laid the chair, and gave me a cheeky little salute.
I settled in, towel draped across the lounger, tank top tossed to the side, legs outstretched like I was sunbathing for GQ:Degenerate Edition. The breeze was divine. The sun was aggressive, but in that cute “I’m here to fix you” kind of way. I took a sip of my coconut water and sighed dramatically.
And, of course—because the world can’t give me more than ten minutes of peace—two guys approached from stage left. Mid-thirties, fit, beach-kissed hair, and faces that screamedbrunches hard.
“Oh my god, it’s really you,” one of them said, already beaming like I was the second coming of Cher. “Hudson Knight, right? Weloveyour movies.”
I put on my best humble-smug face. “I mean, who doesn’t love watching me almost die dramatically while shirtless?”
“That scene inRogue Tidewhere you fight the guy with the harpoon? Amazing!” the other chimed in.
“Honestly,” the first said, placing a hand on his heart. “You got me through my breakup. I must’ve watchedAftershocka hundred times. You cry so well.”
“That’s just allergies and method acting,” I deadpanned. “But thank you. Seriously.”
They asked for a selfie, which I obliged—one arm around each of them, smiling like I wasn’t dying inside from dehydration and the faint scent of tequila still radiating from my pores.
“You staying in around long?” one asked as they checked their photo.
“For now,” I said, already inching toward the escape route that was the ocean. “But I’m currently on a strict hangover rehab schedule. Sun. Silence. Possibly a Bloody Mary in an hour.”
“Oh! We won’t bother you then. But thank you so much for the picture. Appreciate it!” They laughed, waved, and trotted off, leaving a faint trail of SPF and admiration behind them.
I peeled myself from the lounger and headed toward the water. The sand scorched my feet, but the ocean—oh, theocean—wrapped around my ankles like a cold ex-boyfriend begging for another chance. I waded in deeper, letting the salt sting away the sins of the night before.
And for a moment, with the waves lapping at my waist and the sun kissing the back of my neck, I almost felt wholesome.
Almost.
