Page 47 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Bracing.
Just the way I liked it.
The pianist at the front of the lounge played a gentle rendition of “La Vie en Rose,” the notes floating through the room like perfume. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the music lull me into a rare state of stillness. This was the kind of place where you couldfeelthe wallpaper—textured, lived-in, intimate. It didn’t demand anything from me. It didn’t need me to perform.
Not like everyone else in my life.
I was supposed to be at home right now, enjoying a decadent dessert. That was my plan. That was my night. Instead, I was in linen and loafers, hiding from the thumping bass of Hudson Knight’s impromptu beach orgy-slash-party next door.
So much for peace.
That man was—what? Infuriating? Exasperating? Tempting? All of the above? There was something about him that rubbed against the grain of my entire existence. And yet, some masochistic part of me kept checking my phone—like his name might appear out of nowhere, even though he didn’t have my number. He hadn’t messaged, of course. He couldn’t. But that didn’t stop me from looking.
My mind was supposed to be focused on the verdant scene, the soft hymns from the piano, and the invigorating taste of my extra dirty martini. But, it was not fully capable of such relaxation right now. It somehow wanted to drift to all the current drama in my life. And not just Hudson.
My head went right to thoughts of Owen once again.
I clenched the stem of my martini glass tighter than necessary.
Owen, with his perfectly practiced apologies and casual betrayals. The man who once promised me forever but couldn’t keep it together for a decade. He had me believing I was the problem. That my perfectionism, my lists, and my organized world made me cold. That my need for structure was an imposition.
But now, with the noise of that party vibrating through the walls of my vacation beach house and Hudson tossing his charm like confetti, I was beginning to wonder if maybe—just maybe—being cold wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
At least cold things didn’t melt so easily.
“Sweet Caroline!” the crowd sang along as the pianist abruptly changed course. And there it was—the straight-white-people trifecta I had predicted all along. Any second now, I was bound to hear “Don’t Stop Believin” by Journey or “‘Livin’ on a Prayer,” by Bon Jovi, and yes, bless them, but no, thank you.
Not for me tonight…
Still, it wasn’t crowded. Notyet. A modest gathering of quiet couples, some solo patrons like me, and a trio of middle-aged men giggling over a shared plate of warmed crab dip.
The lights were low enough that no one recognized me, or if they did, they had the decency to let me pretend otherwise. No whispers of “Miles Whitaker” floated through the air. No awkward “I follow you on Instagram” interruptions. Just the music. Just the tree and the green glow that casts everything in this strange, beautiful calm.
And for the first time in what felt like a while, I let myself relax. I let my shoulders drop. I uncrossed my legs. I took another long sip of my martini and placed it gently back onto the wooden table. I didn’t have to fix anything right now. I didn’t have to smile through the discomfort or soothe anyone else’s feelings.
I just had tobe.
And right now? That was enough.
I was finally alone.
And I don’t mean in the pathetic,woe is mekind of way. I mean in the truly sacred sense. The sort of rare solitude you crave but never quite manage to find when your name is synonymous with order, hospitality, and the color-coded spice rack.
No crashing waves of regret. No barking dog (although Topper is my life, and I love that baby to death). No raucous drag of a party thumping through my walls. Just me, my drink, and the ambiance of a woodland speakeasy.
Of course, it was too good to last.
Just as I was closing my eyes and letting the vodka and olive brine burn away the memory of Hudson Knight’s never-ending castaway circus next door, I felt it—a tap on the shoulder. Light, but deliberate.
I turned my head and looked up.
Of course.
There he was.
Hudson fucking Knight.
I blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
