Page 55 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“But I don’t want to talk about Owen anymore,” I said, shaking my head and sitting back.
Cecilia raised an eyebrow.
“Or Hudson,” I added quickly, before she could steer the conversation there.
“Oh, nowthatname carries a bit of heat,” she teased.
“Mother.”
She laughed and held up her hands. “Fine, fine. No Hudson talk.”
I rubbed my face with both hands and then blinked up at the ceiling. “You know what I really want right now?”
“What?” she asked, setting her glass down on the end table.
“Dessert.”
Cecilia blinked. “Excuse me?”
I sat up straighter. “I mean it. I have everything—flour, sugar, butter, fresh white apricots, even the fancy vanilla paste I ordered from France like a lunatic. I was going to make a white apricot galette with a brown butter crust and a thyme-honey glaze at some point this weekend. It would be a shame for it all to go to waste.”
“You want to bake?” she asked flatly, studying me.
“I want dessert,” I clarified. “But then again, you probably shouldn’t have too much sugar this late at night. Blood sugar and sleep and all that.”
She stood slowly, brushing invisible lint from her pants. Then she walked around behind the couch and placed one manicured hand on my shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze.
“I’ll be fine with a little sugar,” she said, her voice rich and warm. “Like I told you before—it’s fun to go off script.”
I looked up at her, and there was something in her expression I couldn’t quite place. Not pity. Not smugness. Something gentler. Wistfulness, maybe. Hope.
Maybe even a little pride.
I nodded slowly.
Then stood.
“Come on,” I said, tugging at her hand. “Let’s ruin our diets.”
Hudson
I woke up before my alarm. Hell, I woke up before the sun even fully committed to the sky. My phone said 8:00 AM, and my soul said, “What the fuck, man?”
I never—never—wake up this early unless it’s for something dire, like a court date or Botox. But there I was, wide awake in a king-sized bed with three pillows on the floor, a cramp in my calf and foot, and one hell of a memory tingling on my lips.
The kiss.
That goddamn kiss.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling fan spinning half-assedly above me, doing about as much work as I planned to do today. And yet, something in me felt weirdly… alert. Alive, even.
Miles Whitaker. Mr. Prim. Mr. Pristine. Mr. “Fold-Your-Napkin-Diagonally-or-Die.” I’d kissedhim.On the beach. Under the stars. After three martinis and a walk so long, I thought I might legally be in Maryland by the end of it.
And okay—fine—maybe I didn’t plan it. Perhaps it was the vodka. Or the briny whisper of olive juice that had me all in my feelings. But the thing is, it wasn’t just the martinis.
It was him.
That man was a walking paradox—cold as quartz one second, then warm as a sunbeam if you looked at him just right. And when he turned away at his beach house and said, “Thank you for not completely ruining my evening,” I should’ve let him go inside and be done with it.
