Page 39 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I could already feel my blood pressure rising. But I wasn’t going to yell. Not yet. I was going to be calm, collected, and firm.
Because if Hudson Knight wanted to throw the party of the summer next door to me, he was going to learn that even chaos had a curfew.
And I was just the man todeliver it.
Hudson
There were two things I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do after turning forty: host my own parties and do cardio that didn’t involve a bed or a man named Luca. I was proud to say that tonight, I was upholding at least one of those vows.
Did I lift a single finger setting up for this party? Absolutely not. I didn’t haul furniture, hang up lighting, or even arrange the seahorse-shaped ice buckets my assistant had ordered from some mainland shop. Why would I? That’s what money is for. And I have plenty of it—still. Against all odds.
Instead, I paid a team of hot, half-naked boys in neon speedos and open beach shirts to do the honors. Bartenders, servers, a DJ who looked like he moonlighted as a personal trainer for drag queens—all of them knew their place and their purpose.
The theme?Castaway Chic. Think shipwreck meets poolside thirst trap. Torn sarongs, shell necklaces, bronzed abs, and enough coconut-scented body oil to start a fire if anyone got too close to a tiki torch.
I was, naturally, the centerpiece. Draped in a tattered white tank top and loose, sun-bleached pants with a silk scarf knotted around my neck—because even marooned gays should accessorize—I sat regally with my stitched-up foot elevated on a velvet ottoman like a wounded heiress from a Tennessee Williams play.
And everyone stared at me.
They always do.
A steady stream of gorgeous, glistening bodies flowed in and out of the backyard, spilling from the pool to the deck and into the sand. The air smelled like sunscreen, tequila, and ambition. My music—some thumping, bitchyEurotrash remix—was rattling the windows. I counted at least eighty people. I had invited twenty, but gay men travel in packs, and one RSVP turns into five very quickly when someone says the wordsHudson Knight’s placeandopen bar.
Let them come. Let them gawk.
Men kept slipping me drinks I hadn’t asked for, lingering too long with their eyes, fingers grazing my arm, or brushing against my shoulder like they were checking to see if I was real. Of course, I was real. I was the main attraction. A wounded gazelle with a complicated past and a dangerously sexy Instagram following.
But through all the attention, all the eye-fucking, one face was conspicuously absent.
Miles Whitaker.
Not that I expected him to show up. The man probably thinks a gay pool party is a public health crisis. But some dark part of me—a petty, nosy little voice in the back of my mind—wondered if he was watching from his ivory tower, seething into a glass of organic sangria.
Fucking let him.
Let him watch this glorious circus.
People swayed to the beat. A boy with glittered cheeks did a backflip into the pool, nearly taking out a guy in mesh shorts. Glow necklaces were passed around like communion wafers. Someone had a disco ball hooked up to a drone.
And yes, I was keeping it together.
No slurred speeches. No drunken screaming. No one was getting filmed doing anything scandalous—yet. I was alert, hydrated, and charming, thank you very much. My agent had warned me: “No more meltdowns, Hudson. No more viral clips of you drunk-crying in a hot tub.”
So, I stayed composed. Watched. Smiled when necessary. Even posed for a few selfies with people I didn’t recognize but who probably tagged me, anyway.
Still, a man gets tired.
Especially one with stitches and a reputation to uphold.
And as the party roared on and the moon began to rise, I kept one eye on the pool… and one ear tuned to the faintest sound from next door.
Waiting.
But still, a no-show.
I couldn’t help but be tempted to stalk Miles on Instagram, only to see he just made a post fifteen minutes ago with an amazing seafood spread he made, what looked to be on a deck overlooking the ocean.
Whatever. Let Miles keep his fucking artisanal crab cakes.
