Page 43 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Yes. That was it. That was what I needed tonight.
I set my phone down and exhaled, already feeling my heart rate lower at the thought of the night ahead. I’d go alone. Which was fine—preferred, actually. I didn’t need to talk to anyone. I just needed an atmosphere that respected the concept of peace and melody, along with a decent glass of wine or a vodka martini.
I walked over to the mirror and gave myself a once-over. Hair: perfectly in place with just the right amount of tousle. Skin: sun-kissed but moisturized. Mood: cautiously optimistic.
I grabbed my slim leather wallet and my phone. Then, I opened the Uber app.
Destination:Top of the Pines.
As I waited on the porch, the soft hum of the party next door still filled the air. Laughter. Music. A pop of bass that rattled the windows like a reminder of the craziness I’d just escaped. I could faintly hear Hudson’s voice—loud, brash, probably halfway through a tequila-fueled story about a sex scandal that never made the press.
And yet, underneath the irritation, there was this strange knot in my chest. Not quite anger. Not quite jealousy. Just…intrigue. The man was a mess. A beautiful, loud, insufferable mess. And yet, he’d somehow managed to steal the focus of my entire evening.
But not tonight. Tonight wasmine.
The Uber pulled up in a sleek black sedan, and I slid into the backseat with a polite nod to the driver.
Just to prevent my mother from panicking—or suffering a heart attack or aneurysm when she found the house empty—I decided to text her, letting her know I’d made a little in-town getaway for the evening and that she didn’t need to worry.
As the car pulled away from Ocean Drive, the sounds of the party faded, swallowed by the night and the winding road into town.
And just like that, with the soft leather beneath me and the prospect of piano music ahead, the world began to right itself again.
Finally, some peace.
Hudson
Okay, so here’s the deal: Miles just fucking ghosted the party.Entirely.
One second, he’s here, propped up beside his mother, lecturing me, rolling his eyes like he invented moral high ground. The next?Poof.Gone. Vanished into the night like some snobby seabird whose wings can’t handle the salt spray.
And you know what? It didn’t bug me at first. I did chase after him, but to no fucking avail. So, I tried immersing myself in the life of the party again. I was rolling with the crowd—shots being poured, flirty smiles flung across my line of vision, strappy speedos streaked in neon glow-in-the-dark body paint—but once that quicksilver guy slipped away, everything shifted. I felt it. Something like… emptiness or late-night regret or maybe just asking myself,who’s actually here that I still wanna talk to?
Not many people, honestly. It’s all noise and muscle, laughs that drown each other out, half-naked bodies swaying to music pumped through borrowed speakers. The conversation is shallow:
“You in that new film?”
“Want to do a body shot off me?”
“You gonna model that outfit on the ‘gram?”
Spare me the bullshit.
Truth? I don’t click with that sort of garbage. Sure, it gets me laid and looks good on my stories, but it’s notme.I wanted more tonight. Not more cocktail servers or more shirtless bros. I wanted something…real. Maybe some intellectual banter. Instead, I get another tequila-fueled ego parade.
I drained my drink and glanced over at the dancinglights twirling around the patio. On the one hand, it’s glorious—tangled lanterns, a glow like fireflies on water, hands in the air, something sugary-sweet in the air. On the other hand,anyone could fill this place.
And hell, I kind of get it—Rehoboth brings out that local-town, black-tie-beach-by-day shame. Folks just want to dance, get messy, stop caring. But not me tonight. Tonight, I was going for something else. Or maybe nothing at all.
I was weighing whether to call it, dragging my foot—stitches and all—toward the house door when I felt atapon my shoulder.
A sharp little tap. Polite. Unassailable.
I turned.
Holy hell.
There she was:Cecilia Hastings. Dazzling even under disco lights. Coral caftan whipped by the breeze, hair soft and styled, high heels absolutely intact for the life of me. Glass of something in hand, and that sharp glance of hers…
