Page 48 of The Rehoboth Retreat
His face—smug, scruffy, and irritatingly handsome—broke into a slow grin. He looked like he knew exactly what kind of elegant turmoil he was dropping into, which, of course, made me want to throw my martini at his perfectly chiseled face.
“Hey,” he said casually, like we were old friends bumping into each other at Trader Joe’s, not two people separated by a very literal property line and philosophical divide.
I narrowed my eyes. “Why are you here? How did you even find me? And what happened to your party?”
He gestured vaguely behind him. “Canceled it.”
My mouth parted. “You canceled an entire beach party? You can’t be serious?”
“Yeah. Got bored. Plus, everyone was a little too…dehydrated. It was getting sloppy. You know how gays are with an open bar and no sense of personal boundaries.”
I stared. “So, you kicked out dozens of people and came here?”
“I figured you might be out. Rehoboth’s not that big. Checked Aqua—too many wings and plastic red pitchforks. Diego’s was presumably too loud for your royal highness. This place felt… you. And sure enough, I was right as rain.”
I folded my arms across my chest, glaring at him. “You ruined my dinner.”
He nodded solemnly. “The swordfish smelled amazing, by the way. It did creep over across the way. Cooked fish always does, after all.”
“And you ruined my dessert. I was going to bake this white apricot galette with a brown butter crust. Instead, I had to listen to ‘Vogue’ vibrating through my floorboards.”
“I thought that was a compliment,” he said.
I ignored him. “And I had plans to work on my outline tonight. The new book. The one I may have told you about? I can’t quite remember now.”
“The one about organizing your emotions through throw pillow placement?” he asked, smirking.
“It’s about mindful home design through structured living,” I snapped. “God, you are insufferable. Why did you even come here? Just to rile me all up?”
Hudson slid his hands into the pockets of his pants, looking mildly amused. He was wearing a wrinkled white button-down that was half unbuttoned, and his tan skin practically glowed under the green lights. At least he had the decency to change into something moderately appropriate from his party attire. If he weren’t so utterly abysmal, he’d almost be…alluring.
“Can I sit?” he asked finally, nodding at the empty space beside me on the green leather sofa.
I exhaled, long and dramatic. “I suppose. You’ve already ruined the night. Might as well follow through.”
He chuckled and lowered himself carefully into the seat, favoring his stitched-up foot.
“Careful,” I muttered. “Wouldn’t want your stitches to pop open and bleed all over this fairy woodland fantasy.”
He gave a lazy grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I took a sip of my martini, the brine cutting through the frustration. The piano player was now shifting to some 80s tunes, the first, a medley combination of “Fame” and Irene Cara’s “What a Feeling,” which I didn’t mind at all.
Hudson leaned back, studying me. “You really hate me, don’t you?”
“I don’t hate you,” I said slowly. “I just… strongly resent the way you bulldoze through people’s lives like they’re furniture at a clearance sale.”
He laughed loudly. “That’s… honestly the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
I said nothing, just stared straight ahead at the piano while he quietly chuckled next to me, his cologne mingling with the faint scent of cedar and a gin-tequila combo.
God help me; the man was exhausting.
But at least, for now, he was quiet.
That was at least a start.
As the song ended, I could hear a soft applause, the muted clink of glasses and the low murmur of conversation surrounding us, but inside my head, everything felt a volume higher—hyper-aware, cautious, bristling. The Top of the Pines was too perfect, too serene, and next to me sat the one person who’d shattered my plans for a quiet evening:Hudson Knight.
