Page 66 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“You’re a star,” I said, then paused mid-shirt-button. “Wait, you cried?”
“Fake cried.”
“Even hotter.”
She hung up. I smirked and tossed my phone on the bed before resuming my wardrobe dilemma.
What does one wear to his own pop-up miracle of a midday adventure? Something sexy but casual. Like,I don’t try too hard; I just look like this when I wake up rich.
I settled on a white linen button-down that still smelled faintly of the boutique in Palm Springs, where I guilt-bought it after insulting the shopkeeper’s dog. Crisp. Airy. Slightly sheer if the light hit it right, which it would. Dark navy shorts—tailored enough to say I had taste, loose enough to say I had thighs. And white boating shoes because, well, I like looking like a man-slut Kennedy. Topped it off with a pair of designer aviators with a gold trim so shiny it could signal a rescue chopper.
I checked myself in the mirror.
“Damn, Knight,” I murmured, doing a little spin. “You look like the brunch daddy no one ordered, but everybodyneeds.”
Then my phone buzzed.
It was Miles. Instagram DM.
Classic.
@MilesInOrder:
Okay, seriously. What should I wear? Should I pack anything? Is this… casual? Athletic? I swear, if I show up in the wrong outfit, I will walk straight into the ocean and drag you with me.??
I actually laughed. Like a full-belly, stupid grin kind of laugh. Miles. That poor, uptight man was probably sweating bullets trying to figure out if he needed a blazer or SPF 80.
I cracked my knuckles and typed back:
@HudsonKnight_Official:
It’s outside. That’s your only hint. One and a half hours. Wear something you can breathe in. And maybe blush in.??
Then I hit send and tossed my phone again, this time onto the nearby lounge chair in my expansive master bedroom.
God, I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face.
In exactly ninety minutes, my plan would be in motion. The kind of plan that takes money, balls, and at least one intern to pull off.
Was it over the top?Of course.
Would it be worth it?Hell yes.
I adjusted my collar and walked out onto the deck of my place, the salt air already curling the ends of my damp hair. I glanced next door at Miles’ beach house from my window—blue, proper, probably sanitized within an inch of its life.
I imagined him pacing, opening and closing drawers, debating which crinkled texture shirt of his lookedmost unbothered by Hudson Knight. Maybe he was shaving. Maybe he was yelling at Topper to get out of the guest closet.
All I knew was today wasn’t going to be anything like what Miles planned.
And if I played this right?
It’d be the first day in a long-ass time that someone like him might actually have fun while not lifting a single finger.
Miles
By the time thirty minutes had passed since breakfast, the house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner, roasted rosemary, and just a hint of the ocean breeze curling in through the cracked French doors. The kind of scent that only comes from a well-lived-in morning. The dishes were clean, the table cleared, and every counter wiped down to a shine so pristine you could practically see your own reflection in the quartz.
I, however, still wasn’t ready.
