Page 56 of The Rehoboth Retreat
But no. My dumbass had to go and grab his wrist like I was some character in a Nicholas Sparks paperback with a shirt unbuttoned to my navel.
And then I kissed him. Softly. Stupidly.
And now? Now, Icouldn’t stop replaying it. The way he tensed. The way he blinked like he wasn’t expecting me to do it—even though, let’s be honest, I’m about as subtle as a drag queen at a baptism. But more than anything, I couldn’t forget the way his lips felt.
Soft. Still. Honest.
I sat up in bed and raked my hands through my hair, which felt like a haystack of regret and bad decisions. No headache, thankfully. That long walk must’ve sobered me up more than I thought.
“Okay,” I muttered to myself, standing up and stretching, my t-shirt lifting just enough to remind me I still had abs. “Let’s not be a psycho. Let’s be chill. We can be chill.”
That was a lie. I wasn’t chill. I was spiraling like a Bravo Real Housewife caught in a hot mic scandal.
I waddled barefoot into the kitchen, my injured foot feeling so much better today than yesterday. I made a protein shake I didn’t really want, then poured it down the sink and opted for iced coffee with an irresponsible amount of almond milk. I pulled out my phone and opened Instagram.
I hovered for a moment before tapping the DM icon on Miles Whitaker’s profile.
Was this dumb?Probably. Did that ever stop me before?No.
@HudsonKnight_Official:
Hey. I know last night was… well, unexpected. But I wanted to say thanks for the walk. And the conversation. You’re kind of annoyingly refreshing, you know that? Also… sorry if the kiss was too much. If you never want to talk to me again, I get it. But if you do, I’d love to see you again—maybe when I’m not limping like a wounded gazelle? On a different note, I’m kind of starving right now. Not usually a breakfast kind of guy, but I have an itch for some today. Any recommendations on places to go in town?
I stared at the message. Then, re-read it three times.Then, almost deleted it. Then, hit send before I could chicken out.
Sent.
I dropped my phone onto the counter like it had burned me. Jesus. I was acting like a high schooler who had just texted his crush during third-period English Lit.
To distract myself from the emotional turmoil between my ears, I decided to workout in my home gym. My foot still had stitches, and I wasn’t exactly in peak condition. But I needed to do something to shake off the feeling that I’d somehow handed my heart over in a Ziploc bag last night. I would just have to do my best to avoid putting too much pressure on it while lifting weights.
It was decided.
I threw on some gym shorts, grabbed my sneakers, and tottered out to the garage where my home gym setup was—free weights, a stationary bike, and a full-length mirror for thirst traps and self-loathing.
I started with light stretches. My foot barked at me like a tiny angry chihuahua, but I ignored it and hopped onto the bike. I cranked up the resistance and pedaled like I was being chased by the ghost of my last scandal. Which, honestly, was a very real possibility.
After about thirty minutes, I was drenched in sweat, my heart thumping, and my brain marginally less chaotic. I wiped my forehead and checked my phone again.
No response from Miles.
Figures. He was probably alphabetizing his sock drawer or making a color-coded list of reasons why I’m emotionally unstable. But I couldn’t shake the hope. Themaybe. Thewhat if.
I liked him. And not in the usual, shallow, Hudson-wants-to-fuck way. It was something deeper. Weirder. More annoying.
Miles Whitaker made me feel things.Real things. Things that couldn’t be fixed with tequila and a shirtless selfie.
And I hated howmuch I didn’t hate that.
Miles
My eyes fluttered open to the soft, unwelcome glow of morning sunlight spilling through the muslin curtains. It was gentler than usual, as if it was trying to break the news delicately: I had overslept.
6:40 AM.
Forty minutes late.
That may seem negligible to some—to people who drink from mismatched coffee mugs and wear socks with holes in them—but for me, it was nothing short of catastrophic. My entire day was already behind. The dominoes had already begun to fall. I lay there for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling, the guilt seeping in slowly, like a tea stain on crisp linen.
