Page 67 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I’d been hovering upstairs for the past twenty minutes, oscillating between two shirts, three shorts, and an existential wardrobe crisis.
Hudson had saidoutsideandone and a half hours, which was vague and maddeningly cryptic—two things I hated almost as much as overcooked eggs and wrinkled duvet covers. I must have looked at my phone twelve times just to reread the same damn message.
@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.??
What does that even mean? Breathe in? Blush in?
I could feel a phantom, panic sweat forming as I stood in my closet in nothing but a towel, freshly showered and trying to channel the calm of someone who didn’t have to live with a color-coded wardrobe. But no, I did, and every option was screaming for validation.
I finally settled on a light blue chambray button-down. One of my favorites. Soft, breathable, with just enough structure to look intentional but not overdressed. The sleeves were rolled at the elbows—a delicate art that takes years to master—and I left the top two buttons undone, which felt just risqué enough without dipping into thirst trap territory. I paired it with crisp, white, tailored shorts that hit a bit above the knee, structured yet airy, and slipped on a pair of tan leather flip-flops that still smelled vaguely of Capri.
I looked in the mirror. Okay. This was good. Breezy. Polished. A little coastal Hamptons, a little Rehoboth Beach casual. Hudson would have to appreciate that. Or at least not roast me for it.
I padded downstairs, the wood cool beneath my feet, and walked into the main room, where the sunlight poured in like honey. Topper lay sprawled belly-up on the cool tile floor, his legs splayed at odd angles like he had just fainted from joy—or heat.
And not too far away was my mother, eying me menacingly.
“Don’t give me that look,” I muttered, grabbing my sunglasses and tucking them into the collar of my shirt. “You’re not the one going on a mysterious outdoor adventure planned by an unhinged celebrity with zero regard for schedule or structure.”
Cecilia sat on the oversized white sectional, cross-legged in her favorite caftan, the green silk flowing around her like a queen mid-audience. She was sipping what I could only assume was her third mimosa of the day.
“Well, don’t you look cute,” she purred, lowering her sunglasses down her nose just to eye me over the rim. “White shorts, huh? Bold for outdoor mystery. Are you sure he’s not taking you to a demolition derby or an amateur kickboxing match?”
I rolled my eyes and crossed to her, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “Very funny. But no, I don’t think I’m about to get pummeled or splattered. I’m trusting it’s just…casual fun.”
“Famous last words,” she said with a grin, lifting her glass.
I bent down to scratch behind Topper’s ears. “You be good for Grandmom, okay? No chasing seagulls through the screen door again.”
Topper gave a soft, lazy huff in response, tail thumping once against the floor.
Cecilia raised an eyebrow. “I’ll keep him out of trouble, don’t worry. You just go out and—how do the kids say it? Touch grass. Breathe. Live a little?”
I gave her a small, reluctant smile. “I’m trying.”
“You’re doing more than trying. You’redoing. And that’s already a win, darling.” She reached for my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Now go on. Hudson’s waiting. I’ll hold down the fort here.”
I nodded, inhaling deeply.
Okay. This was happening.
I reached for the door handle, one hand gripping the knob with a strange mix of nerves and curiosity fluttering in my stomach. The air on the other side was a wall of summer heat—ninety degrees, not a cloud in the sky, and the kind of brightness that painted everything in sharp color and shadow. Somewhere out there, Hudson had something planned.
And I was about to find out what.
I stepped out into the blazing sunlight, the kind of bright, punishing morning that made you question every fabric choice you’d ever made. The heat hit me like a wall—90 degrees already, and it wasn’t even noon. The light blue breezy button-down I’d chosen stuck slightly to my back, and the white shorts I’d ironed to perfection were probably going to get creased the moment I sat down. Flip-flops slapped against my heels with each step, and I held onto a small bottle of water like it was a holy relic.
Then I saw it. Hudson’s convertible—some German marvel I couldn’t name but had definitely seen in luxury magazines—glided around the bend like it belonged in a commercial. The thing practically purred instead of growled, its sleek black paint glistening under the Delaware sun. It looked out of place and yet completely at home in the sleepy calm of Ocean Drive.
He was behind the wheel, of course. Hudson Knight, the tabloid headline, the scandal machine, the man with over two million followers who somehow ended up knocking onmydoor for brunch. And now here he was, one wrist slung lazily over the steering wheel like this was some indie movie montage. He had on a crisp white linen button-down, half unbuttoned (of course), and a pair of deep navy shorts that probably cost more than my entire seasonal wardrobe. His feet were in stark white boating shoes, and those designer aviators—gold-rimmed, mirrored—sat on his face like they’d been made for it.
“Get in, Alphabet Boy,” he smirked over the top of his sunglasses.
I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks betrayed me with a flush. “You’re late,” I said, slipping into the buttery leather of the passenger seat.
“I’m fashionably on time. Don’t ruin the fantasy.”
