Page 25 of The Rehoboth Retreat
@NeatBitesDaily:You’re giving beach Martha Stewart, and I’m here for it.
@TheOrderlyAppetite761: Please host a coastal picnic series!
After finishing the sandwich—and giving a few more bites the reverent attention they deserved—I ended the live video, tucked my phone away, and walked toward the water.
The sand was warm beneath my feet, soft and golden, and the scent of salt was thick in the air. The ocean shimmered like a promise. I stepped in slowly, letting the cold shock my system. Water swirled around myankles, then my knees, and before I knew it, I dove in—completely submerged in the Atlantic’s embrace.
I surfaced, slick and laughing, then closed my eyes and floated on my back, arms stretched wide, the sun pressing kisses to my cheeks. The ocean held me like an old friend. For a few minutes, I was no one. Just a body, floating. Miles Whitaker: blogger, brand guru, recovering perfectionist—dissolved into something simpler.
When I returned to shore, I towel-dried lazily, salt crusting on my skin, and sank back into my lounge chair. The sun filtered through the umbrella, casting dappled light across my thighs. A warm breeze played with the ends of my damp hair. My stomach was content. My mind was quiet. I leaned back, exhaled deeply, and thought:this. This is the life I built.
Not a husband. Not a timeline. Not a white picket fence. But this.
A perfectly packed lunch. The ocean. Peace.
And for today, that was more than enough.
But little did I know that my serenity was going to be cut short.
Someone shouting cut through the idyllic lull of my afternoon like a rusty knife through silk.
“MOTHER FUCKER!”
It was not the sort of exclamation one typically heard on this stretch of Rehoboth Beach. I froze mid-sip of cucumber-mint sparkling water, the chilled condensation dripping onto my forearm as I squinted toward the disruption.
Trash. Absolute trash.
Who yells like that on a beach?
The shriek had come from several yards down the shoreline, near the water’s edge, and a cluster of horrified beachgoers had already begun to gather like seagulls around a dropped funnel cake. I sat up straighter in my lounger, pushing my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. From this distance, I could see a figure sprawled outdramatically in the wet sand, clutching his foot like a man shot in battle. His sunglasses were askew. Blood. Actual blood pooled around his foot.
I cursed under my breath, tossed my linen napkin onto the remains of my beautifully arranged lunch setup, and sprang to my feet.
Some part of me was already moving before my brain had fully caught up. Years of planning elegant parties and rescuing half-burned roasts had trained me for crisis situations.
I was crisis. I lived in crisis.
And now, apparently, I was running directly into one on a beach I had intended to spend in blissful solitude.
As I got closer, the figure came into clearer view. Shirtless. Muscled. Dramatic.
Hudson. Of course.
I skidded to a halt, my feet kicking up sand. He was lying on his side like a wounded model in a war movie, one foot lifted slightly, bright crimson dripping from the arch. His sunglasses hung uselessly off one ear.
“Are you okay?” I asked, kneeling beside him.
He looked up, squinting. Then he smiled. “Alphabet Boy.”
Of course.
“Don’t speak,” I snapped, waving over the nearest beach rental attendant.
Once the beach attendant arrived, I gave him specific instructions.
“Go to my beach chair, the one with the umbrella and the striped towel,” I sternly said, pointing at the spot. “There’s a beach bag underneath. Inside is a white medical case. Grab it. Now.”
The beach attendant blinked. “You brought a first aid kit to the beach?”
