Page 26 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Hudson laughed. A sharp, ridiculous sound. “Of course he did.He probably has it alphabetized by injury.”
I ignored him and took off my shirt and folded it, pressing it down gently on the wound. Blood seeped through it almost instantly.
“Woah. I didn’t expect you to have that kind of body. Why are you trying to hide it?” Hudson added.
All I could do was roll my eyes heavily. “Seriously? You’re bleeding a whole damn puddle while I’m helping you, and you think this is the perfect opportunity to flirt?”
“Better now than never. I could die from this,” Hudson replied.
“Doubtful,” I quickly said.
“You don’t know. It could be infected. Maybe sepsis? Could spread to the heart, and then I’m done for.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. You stepped on a shell or claw or something sharp,” I muttered. “It’s deep. You’ll probably need stitches.”
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” Hudson said, studying me with amused eyes.
“I host dinner parties with open flames and guests who drink too much prosecco. This is nothing.”
The beach attendant returned, huffing, handing me the medical kit. I popped it open and began working quickly—cleaning the wound with saline, applying pressure with gauze pads, and wrapping the foot in a compression bandage.
Hudson tilted his head, inspecting me closely. “You do this for all your beach neighbors, or am I just special?”
“You screamed loud enough to startle birds in Lewes,” I said, checking the tightness of the wrap. “I was worried someone had been attacked by a jellyfish or a seagull.”
“Nope. Just a sexy shell with a vendetta.”
“You need to go to the hospital,” I said. “That gash might need sutures. Definitely a tetanus shot.”
“Great,” he muttered, wincing as I shifted his leg. “I’m gonna hobble into Beebe Hospital like a sunburnt pirate.”
I hesitated. “Are you here with anyone? Friends? Family? Anyone who can drive you?”
He looked at me, and the cheekiness in his eyes softened just slightly. “No. Came alone. Don’t really have anyone to call.”
That landed somewhere deep in my chest, inconveniently between irritation and empathy. I exhaled, standing.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll take you. But only to the emergency room door. Don’t expect me to stay and hold your hand.”
“Miles Whitaker, my personal beachside Florence Nightingale.”
“Get up before I change my mind.”
I helped him to his feet—gingerly, as he leaned heavily on me—and together, we limped back toward the beach house, drawing more than a few stares along the way. We rounded the side and made our way to my parked SUV. Hudson, with blood-splattered sand clinging to his leg. Me, in my tight red swimwear, holding a half-naked man in a sleek, shiny black speedo—like some ironic twist on a romantic comedy.
Only this wasn’t a dreamy encounter.
This was a mess.
And I had just agreed to drive it to the hospital.
Hudson
It was official. I had hit rock bottom—on a beach, no less.
There I was, shirtless, sandy, and humiliated with a foot that looked like a horror film prop, being tended to by Rehoboth Beach’s very own Marie Kondo with a tan.
Miles fucking Whitaker.
