Page 61 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Each place setting had its own mini cutting board charger. Not plates—cutting boards. The plates themselves were hand-thrown ceramic, pale cream with imperfect scalloped edges, like the pottery version of a rich girl’s beach waves. Cloth napkins were folded with military precision and pinned with eucalyptus sprigs tied in twine. Each mimosa glass had a thinly sliced blood orange perched on the rim, looking so sultry I almost asked it for its number.
“Oh myGod,” I muttered, glancing at Cecilia like I’d been slapped with a folded-up Architectural Digest magazine.
Cecilia just gave a hum of satisfaction and slid into her chair like this level of elegance was her default setting. “He does know how to set a table,” she said, sipping from her champagne like she was judging the sunrise.
“Set a table?” I whispered, dragging my feet forward. “This looks like a Pinterest board had sex with a cookbook and this is the gay little brunch baby they made.”
Miles appeared with a tray, his expression calm and his movements surgical. I couldn’t even speak. I just watched him move as he began placing the dishes—his flawless, OCD-level dishes—onto the table with the kind of reverence usually reserved for organ donations.
Firstcame the French omelets. Light, yellow, silky—not fluffy,silky—folded with just the faintest sheen of butter, like each one had been whispered to in French before landing on the plate. No toppings, just eggs, cream, butter, and technique.Offensivelevels of skill.
Next: herbed potatoes, browned within an inch of their crispy lives, speckled with rosemary and thyme. You could hear the crunch from the tray hitting the wood. Then came strips of prosciutto—crisped, not fried, not greasy,crisped—like bacon’s fancy cousin who vacations in Capri and never talks to you at family reunions.
Then: a glass bowl of fruit salad so stupidly gorgeous I almost wanted to cry. Chunks of pineapple, watermelon, and berries, all kissed with lime zest and a whisper of mint.
Mini croissants?Check. They were warmed to perfection. Their layers flaked when I breathed too close to them. Likehow dare you look at me with hunger.
And, of course, the mimosas. There were two kinds—classic and blood orange. Bothe were served in champagne flutes that were beyond thin. Each one sparkled in the sunlight like it had been filtered by heaven.
I blinked twice. Then looked at Miles.
“You—what—you did all thisthis morning?In just one hour?”
Miles gave a modest shrug. “It’s just breakfast.”
Just breakfast.
I looked at Cecilia, who was adjusting her napkin and already reaching for a croissant-like she was in the middle of a royal coronation, and this was standard procedure.
“I’d like to formally apologize for every brunch I’ve ever hosted,” I said, dropping into my chair like a defeated sinner. “This makes my avocado toast look like prison food.”
Miles arched a brow. “Avocado toastisprison food.”
I pointed at him. “That’s offensive to millennials, but I’ll allow it.”
He cracked a rare smile as he took his seat opposite me. Cecilia, of course, was dead center, like the brunch queenshe was born to be. The three of us sat there, the soft salt air wafting through the deck rails, sunlight dappling over the spread like it was staged by a lighting crew. The table didn’t just look good—it glowed.
“Now,” Miles said, unfolding his napkin with the elegance of a Michelin chef-slash-wedding planner. “Shall we?”
And just like that, we were all seated.
We dug in. Forks clinked, Miles refilled the mimosas, and there was this easy rhythm to everything. Like we’d done this before. Like we were three characters from one of those breezy Netflix original series where everything’s beautiful, queer, and expensive. I could almost hear the saxophone music.
“So,” I said, pointing my fork at Miles mid-bite, “I think you mentioned you’re just renting this house for a few days? Or is it just one of your lifestyle empire hideaways?”
Miles looked up, slightly bashful. “Yes. We are renting it from a friend of my mother’s. Like I mentioned during one of your buzzes yesterday, I have a place just ten minutes away. However, I needed a change of scene. Fewer memories of the ex during a weekend retreat. So, I came here to get away and recharge. I have a place in Jersey, too, but this… this is where I can actually breathe.”
“Nice,” I said, looking around. “This place is incredible. I’d seriously live here full time if I had more time and less of a career. Of course, I’d have to make peace with being surrounded by seagulls and retiree gays in tank tops.”
“Oh, they’re half the charm,” Cecilia chimed in, raising her glass.
I laughed, then took another sip of mimosa and leaned on my elbow. “I’m actually planning to stay here for a bit,” I said, suddenly aware I’d just… said that out loud. “Not forever. Just until the media stops clawing at my ass. Jackson and I breaking up turned into this tabloid bonanza. Publicists are screaming. Agents are pretending to cry. One person called it a ‘heartbreaking Hollywood divorce,’ and we weren’teven married.”
Miles raised a brow. “You’re just waiting it out here?”
“Yup. Let the fire burn out while I sip vodka and avoid TMZ,” I said. “Once the smoke clears, I’ll be back in the city, back on set, back to pretending I don’t hate every single photoshoot and script. But I do like it here. Rehoboth. The ocean. The quiet. I could see myself coming back every so often.”
Cecilia nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a healing place, especially for the soul.”
