Page 51 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I nodded, all warmth and recklessness in a single gesture. “Let’s do it, partner. And don’t worry about my foot. I’ll make it work.” I pulled out my crutch with a littlegroan—as if solidarity were pain—but kept the smirk. “We’ve earned it.”
“Oh no! I completely forgot about your foot for a second. Maybe we should just catch an Uber back,” Miles suggested.
I shook my head. “No. Let’s do it. I don’t mind. Could use the refreshing air.”
“You sure?” he checked for the final time.
“Positive,” I replied.
He rolled up his sleeves, fresh waves of confidence washing over him. “Should be like what? A thirty-minute walk to Ocean Drive. Sound depressing?”
I laughed. “Sounds perfect.”
With the tab soon paid, we stood up—me stumbling, him steady. That light between us, soft as ocean foam, had shifted. The next chapter would begin with sea-sliced air, sand beneath our feet, and two men who’d swallowed their shields. And quietly started to trust.
There’s something about Rehoboth Beach at night that almost makes me believe in stupid shit like fate. The moon’s doing that thing where it pretends it’s a spotlight just for me—pale, theatrical, dramatic. It glints off the waves like a disco ball, and I swear I can hear the ocean whispering something cheeky. Or maybe it’s the three martinis doing the whispering. Either way, I feel buzzed and poetic, which is usually a sign I should shut the hell up before I do something ridiculous.
But ridiculous is exactly what I’m doing. Walking on damp sand next to Miles Whitaker, who’s still wearing those absurdly spotless loafers that probably cost more than a college student’s monthly apartment rental. The man somehow manages to look pressed and polished in a beach town after midnight. Me? I look like I just escaped a sex scandal and a Wal-Mart clearance bin—which, to be fair, is only half untrue.
Miles walks with purpose, like he’s trying to outpace some invisible anxiety. His hands are in his pockets, and hekeeps glancing at the ocean like it’s going to offer answers. I shove mine into the pockets of my pants and match his pace, which is a bit of a challenge with my bandaged foot, but hey—pain builds character, right?
“I still don’t get why you left your own party,” Miles says finally, his voice soft but edged with that perfectly pruned judgment he’s probably patented.
I shrug, kicking a shell out of the path. “Wasn’t feelin’ it. You were more fun than a dozen shirtless guys who couldn’t spellcharismaif it slapped their ass.”
He actually laughs, and I count that as a win. It’s not often I get to crack that frosty exterior. Most people are lucky if they get a polite chuckle. I just got an actual, honest laugh.
We keep walking, passing the skeletons of sandcastles and the occasional leftover flip-flop, casualties of someone else’s better night. There’s a breeze now—cool, salty, with a hint of whatever sexy cologne Miles wears.
“I’m not used to talking about… well, any of that,” he says. “The divorce. Owen. Everything.”
I nod, keeping my eyes ahead. “You surprised me back there. I didn’t think you were the emotional share-your-tragedy-over-cocktails type.”
“I’m not,” he says. “But maybe I’m changing.”
“Or maybe,” I offer, “I’m just that irresistible.”
He snorts. “That must be it.”
We reach the stretch of beach just behind the Ocean Drive house. It’s still as immaculate as I remember. Lit just enough to look like a Pottery Barn catalog, even from the sand. Miles stops, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder cuff even though he’s literally been nowhere near a speck of dirt.
“Well,” he says, turning slightly to face me, “thank you for not completely ruining my evening.”
And that’s when I do it.
Call it martini madness. Call it moonlight delusion. Callit an absolutely shit idea.
I reach out and grab his wrist. Gently—like, not horror movie wrist-grabbing, but just enough to stop him from walking away. His skin is warm, and his pulse jumps under my fingers. For half a second, he just looks at me. His brows twitch in surprise, but he doesn’t pull back.
So, I lean in and kiss him.
It’s not one of those raunchy club kisses that tastes like Red Bull and regret. No—this is soft. Stupid soft. Like a first kiss from a rom-com that ends with a montage and a string quartet. His lips are cool from the night air and slightly salty from the sea breeze.
I pull back before I can make it weird. Okay,weirder.
Miles blinks. He doesn’t slap me. He doesn’t melt into my arms. He just exhales and looks… confused.
“I really should be going inside,” he says, almost in a whisper.
