Page 69 of The Rehoboth Retreat
It was a standout—not just in size, but inpresence. A floating sculpture of opulence.
I stopped in my tracks. “Hudson…” I turned to him. “Is this…?”
He grinned, eyes glinting behind those obnoxiously perfect aviators. “Surprise.”
As if on cue, a man stepped out from the cabin wearing a crisp navy polo,white boat shoes, and a cap that readCaptain Leo. I kid you not. Behind him followed three men dressed in black chef’s coats, carrying trays and cases marked with food service labels.
My mouth parted slightly, but words didn’t come.
“You managed all of this intwo hours?” I finally asked, gesturing at the boat like I was trying to point out a UFO no one else seemed fazed by.
Hudson shrugged. “Well, I had help from a few of my assistants,” he said casually. “They’re monsters when I throw money at them. And promises of PTO.”
“I… don’t know what to say.”
He gave me a soft nudge. “Say, ‘thank you, Hudson, you reckless genius.’ Or you can just get your bougie ass on the boat.”
I did exactly that.
Captain Leo gave a courteous nod as I stepped onto the gangway, his tone warm and professional. “Welcome aboard, gentlemen. We’ll be cruising out into the open bay, past Dewey, toward Indian River Inlet. Calm conditions today—ideal for a relaxing ride.”
I followed Hudson past the lower salon, which had gleaming wood floors, plush cream leather seating, and stainless steel accents. Of course, it had a flat-screen. Of course, it had mood lighting. I barely had time to blink before he guided me up the polished staircase to the flybridge.
Andthat—that—was the moment I had to consciously remind myself to keep breathing.
A table for two sat under the shade of a cream canopy, set with a crisp white tablecloth, sparkling stemware, and pale blue plates that matched my shirt. Finger foods were arranged on mirrored trays: neat rows of chilled shrimp with remoulade, marinated olives, heirloom tomato bruschetta, and an array of delicate tea sandwiches. A full charcuterie spread dominated the center—prosciutto, soppressata, paper-thin slices of jamón ibérico, cornichons, fig jam, brie, blue, manchego, and at least three cheeses I couldn’t name without a sommelier certification.
Caviar was on display, too, in little crystal ramekins on shaved ice. Hudson raised an eyebrow at me. “No bumps. I said no caviar bumps. Youmayuse a blini with crème fraîche. We’re civilized people here.”
I choked back a laugh. “I can’t believe you did all this just for me.”
He walked over to an ice bucket nestled against the railing and pulled out a chilled bottle of champagne. Something French. Something terrifyingly expensive. He popped it with one clean twist of the wrist—pop—and it didn’t even foam over. A neat, elegant hiss of celebration.
“Cheers to Rehoboth Beach,” he said, pouring two flutes like we were in a music video.
I took the glass, still half-convinced I was hallucinating. “Cheers,” I replied.
Our glasses clinked. It was light and effortless. The kind of moment that should’ve been carefully scripted by a production assistant and shot at golden hour. But no. It was real. And I was in it.
He took a sip, then leaned on the rail, eyes scanning the horizon. “Told you to trust me.”
I didn’t reply. Not right away. Because at that very moment, the engines hummed softly beneath our feet. The boat began to ease out of the slip, moving smoothly across the bay like it knew we needed this. Like it had been waiting.
The water was calm. Just a shimmer of movement under a pale blue sky streaked with cottony clouds. The sun danced off the surface like sequins.
And me? I just stood there. Holding a glass of champagne. Watching the shoreline drift away behind us. Wondering how on earth this day becamemine,all orchestrated by this beautiful and yet famously reckless actor.
Hudson was right. I did thank him. I just hadn’t said it out loud yet.
The motor purred beneath us, steady and indulgent, slicing through Rehoboth Bay with smooth confidence. I sat across from Hudson on the upper flybridge of the yacht, still in disbelief that this was real life. The water shimmered like a million silver coins scattered beneath the midday sun, little crests catching light like firecrackers. To our left and right, the shoreline curved gracefully, lined with beach homes that looked like they’d been pulled straight from the pages of a coastal design magazine—weathered gray shingles, wraparound porches, and flags fluttering lazily in the breeze.
I could spot a few I recognized from Zillow deep dives, including the one with the copper-roofed turret I had once saved to my dream home folder. Seeing them from the water only made them more delicious—perfectly perched like smug, tanned aristocrats waving politely.
I took another sip of my champagne, the bubbles pricking my nose in the most delightful way.
“Alright,” I said, gesturing to the decadent spread. “I have to ask—why are you doing all of this for me?”
Hudson was already reaching for a blini, piling it generously with crème fraîche and roe. “Consider this an apology for the noise complaint from last night,” he said with a smirk, his aviators still on, even though we were shaded beneath the flybridge roof.
