Page 40 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Tonight, I was serving fantasy—and baby, they were eating it up.
But speak of the devil…
The second I saw him, my heart did a stupid little flip.
There he was—Miles Whitaker, storming across my backyard like a thundercloud in designer loafers. White linen shirt so crisp it could slice ham, khaki shorts that probably cost more than a normal person’s first car, and a jaw so clenched you’d think he was auditioning for an antacid commercial. Behind him, like a goddamn goddess of dramatic timing, floated an older woman in a flowing dress, oversized sunglasses, and the air of someone who drinks gin at noon and has buried six husbands.
They were certainly not here for a cocktail.
I took one last drag off my drink—something fruity and dangerous made by the bartenders I hired strictly based on their ability to rock a speedo and open a bottle one-handed—and limped my way toward them with all the grace of a giraffe in stilettos. Crutches? Nowhere in sight. I had too much pride and too much tequila in my system to be seen hobbling.
“Miles, baby!” I said, draping an arm around his shoulders like we were brunch besties.
He shoved it off with all the warmth of a TSA pat-down.
“Don’t.”
Ooookay. I guess we were in DEFCON 2 still.
“You look tense,” I offered. “Did the artisan cocktail not steep long enough, or did your dog find your hidden stash of organic dog treats again?”
“The music,” he said, and I swear his eyebrow twitched. “It’s so loud, my walls were vibrating. I had to stop filming a video because it sounded like Studio 54 exploded in my backyard.”
“I mean, technically, that’s kind of the vibe.”
“Hudson,” he snapped, voice sharp enough to filet a sea bass. “There are like one hundred people here.”
“Well, actually around eighty. But I can’t help it. I’m charming. Let the people see what they want to see.”
“You are reckless,” he remarked.
I gave him my best innocent smirk, which, according to Instagram, is also mysmoldering regretface. “It’s Rehoboth Beach. It’s summer. It’s gay. You toss out the scent of a backyard bash, and suddenly, everyone’s cousin’s boyfriend’s Pilates instructor shows up in a crop top or tank.”
He looked like he wanted to scream. Instead, he pointed at my foot. “You shouldn’t even be on that.”
“Technically not. But I’m putting most of the pressure on my left leg, so it’s really more of a… balance exercise.”
“You bled all over the beach today. You scared people.”
“I scared people? Highly doubtful. Just a flesh wound.”
Miles exhaled. Deep. Controlled. The kind of breath you take before you file a lawsuit or cancel brunch.
“I came here to ask you—politely—to turn it down.”
“Come on,” I said, grinning. “Stay. I’ve got cucumber gimlets, frozen lychee cocktails, and a guy doing fire spinning in the backyard. There are crab croquettes somewhere, probably. Let’s call it a peace summit.”
“No. I want quiet. I want a peaceful dinner on my deck. I want my swordfish and my dignity intact.”
I put a hand over my heart. “Swordfish? You wound me.”
“You can’t buy or charm your way out of every situation,” he said.
“Sure I can,” I shot back. “That’s literally the American way.”
He was about to come at me with a rebuttal—I could see it brewing in his eyes—but then the woman behind him made a sound. A soft, judgmental sigh that could sand down granite.
And I finally turned my full attention to her.
