Page 73 of The Rehoboth Retreat
He opened the door, stepped out, and leaned back in just before shutting it. “I’ll see you later?”
“You better,” I said. “Don’t make me come back with another yacht.”
He shook his head, shut the door, and walked toward his front steps. Topper barked excitedly through the window.
I sat there for a second longer, watching him disappear inside.
Then I leaned back in my seat, let out a long exhale, and muttered, “What the hell is happening to me?”
Because yeah. That was a date.
And I wanted another.
I decided to get out and watch as Miles walked towards his beach house. I leaned against the side of my convertible like I was in a damn cologne commercial—wind tousling my hair just enough, aviators hanging off the bridge of my nose, and a stupid, satisfied grin plastered across my face like I just got lucky in a French film.
Which, by the way, I sort of did.
However, I didn’t want the moment to end. As much as I should have just gone back to my house then and there, I could not bring myself to end this date just yet. I still wanted more ofhim.
“So,” I said, dragging the word out like I had all the time in the world. “What are you up to tonight? Reorganizing your throw pillow collection alphabetically by texture?”
Miles chuckled, turning back around in the driveway to face me. “Nothing that thrilling, actually,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I was planning on going to La Fable for dinner, but now, I sort of want to plan on making another fancy dinner and eating it here. Just me, Cecilia, a bottle of wine, and hopefully a breeze that won’t blow my linen napkins into the dune grass.”
He smiled, and I felt it in my chest.
Damn it.
“Sounds wild,” I smirked. “Coincidentally, I’m throwing a party tonight too. Thousand guys. All in speedos. It’s SpeedoFest 2025: abs and EDM. We’ve got a shirtless glitter cannon team, drag queens on jet skis, and a taco truck that only serves post-workout protein options.”
Miles snorted, hand over his mouth. “Hudson—”
“No, no, don’t interrupt my fantasy,” I said, holding up a finger. “There’s a vodka fountainshaped like RuPaul’s head. And six thousand packs of abs as far as the eye can see. The theme isNipple Tape and Neon Regret.”
Miles was laughing now, shoulders shaking, eyes closed. “Okay, okay. That’s enough.”
I sighed dramatically. “Fine. You’re right. I’m lying. There’s no SpeedoFest. Yet. Truth is—I got nothing planned tonight. Not even a sad little frozen pizza and a bottle of tequila, which is saying something.”
He tilted his head, his gaze softening. “Well… then, would you like to join us for dinner?”
I blinked. “Like—eat food? Together? Voluntarily?”
“Yes,” he said, with that small, slightly nervous smile of his. “Around 7:00?”
“Will it be color-coordinated?” I teased.
“You can bet your RuPaul vodka fountain it will,” he replied. “So—are you in?”
I wanted to say something smooth. Something that straddled the line between charming and feral. But what came out was—“I would actually love that.”
His smile deepened, and so help me, I was smitten like a teenager at a Harry Styles concert.
“Perfect,” he said softly. “I’ll see you at seven.”
“Looking forward to it.”
He turned to walk toward the front of his house, but I couldn’t let it end there. Not yet. Not when I was still tasting that kiss from earlier—salted by sea air and champagne and some unspoken something I couldn’t quite name.
“Oh—and hey, Miles?”
