Page 78 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Miles wasn’t drama. He was…calm. Structured. He made a goddamnherb crustfor breakfast and garnished the Bloody Mary with something pickled and poetic. He was everything I wasn’t, and that—that—was the sexiest thing in the world.
I shuffled to the bar because, obviously, I needed to mark the moment with a drink. Something celebratory. Something absurd.
I went for something not usually up my alley: two fingers of gin, a splash of elderflower liqueur, muddled basil, a whisper of grapefruit bitters, and three cucumber slices—because hydration matters. I shook the hell out of it until my arms burned like I’d done actual cardio (ewww), then strained it into a cut-crystal coupe glass, rimmed in Tajín. I topped it with a single edible flower, because why not?
I took a sip.
“Oh, you dirty little herbal seductress,” I muttered to the glass. “You get me.”
Then I downed it.
Time to shower. If I was about to dine with the gay Martha Stewart himself, I wasn’t showing up in joggers and a wrinkled linen shirt like some hungover trust fund case. No. If Miles was going to roast a duck or whip up some tragically romantic risotto, I was going to bring the heat.
I peeled off my clothes—dropping each item like I was the only contestant in a striptease contest at a yacht club—and cranked the shower until the steam curled like sex against the glass. I lathered up with my Aesop body cleanser (don’t judge me, it smells like cedar and ambition), then shaved, exfoliated, moisturized, and cologned like I was heading to the damn Emmys.
By the time I stood in front of my full-length mirror, the outfit laid out before me looked like it belonged to someonedangerous. Or at least someone who tipped well and knew how to kiss without slobbering.
Midnight black tuxedo pants, slim and crisp, tailored within an inch of their life. A deep navy velvet dinner jacket—double-breasted, peak lapel, cut from some Italian fabric that probably cost more than my publicist’s last therapy session. A pressed white dress shirt with a subtle woven texture and a black silk bow tie I tied myself because clip-ons are for cowards.
Then, the pièce de résistance: a pair of glossy black loafers with gold hardware, no socks, because standards, and a single spritz of my favorite Tom Ford scent at the neck and wrists. Just enough to leave a trail.
I stared at myself.
Debonair.
Dashing.
Dramaticin the best way.
“Hudson fucking Knight,” I whispered to the mirror, smirking. “Tonight, you dine like a man reborn.”
I slipped my sunglasses into my breast pocket because, let’s be real, I’d need them to watch the sunset over Miles’ perfectly plated main course—and grabbed my keys.
Dinner with Miles Whitaker. I didn’t know if it would end with dessert or disaster, but for once, I didn’t care.
I just wanted to see what he’d make next.
Just as I was adjusting the cuff of my dinner jacket, I heard the shrill ringtone I’d only assigned to Satan’s executive assistant: Celeste Sterling, my agent.
I sighed and rolled my eyes, already bracing myself for the incoming verbal slap.
“Tell me you’re calling to compliment my bone structure,” I said as I answered, admiring my reflection in the hallway mirror and giving myself a little wink.
“You absolute fucking idiot!” she screeched.
And there it was. Nohi. Nohow’s the weather? Just full nuclear detonation.
“I’m gonna go ahead and assume this isn’t about the artisanal candle line I’ve been pretending to work on,” I muttered.
“Hudson, what the hell did I say? You were supposed to lie low. LIE. LOW. Not get photographed playing tongue Twister with some gay beach-town Stepford wife knockoff!”
“Okay, first of all,ouch. Second of all, he’s not a knockoff. He’s the real deal. The original. He probably came out of the womb organizing swaddling cloths by color palette.”
“Oh my god!” Celester groaned so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “Do you have any idea how bad this looks? You’re at The Top of the Pines laughing and clinking glasses like you’re auditioning for a gay remake ofNotting Hill,and then—then—there’s the blurry photo of you two kissing on a boat like some damn Nicholas Sparks novel got hijacked by TMZ!”
“First of all, I’d pay to see that movie,” I said.
“Hudson. This. Is. Serious.”
