Page 8 of The Rehoboth Retreat
That hit harder than I wanted to admit. I shifted in my seat. The room suddenly felt too bright, too clean. Like it was rejecting me.
I muttered, “So what, I disappear now? Crawl under a rock and wait for the next scandal to knock me off the trending page?”
Celeste sighed. The sigh of a woman who had resuscitated more careers than she had facial expressions. “Yes. You vanish. Strategic retreat. You go somewhere quiet, rebrand, reset, do yoga, or smoke weed—whatever helps you not end up onWatch What Happens Livewith Andy Cohen, crying into a martini.”
I squinted at her. “You have a plan. I can smell it.”
She grinned. That scary, smug grin meant she’d already made three phone calls before I even woke up. “Have you ever heard of Rehoboth Beach?”
“What the hell is a Rehoboth? And why can’t I just go to Provincetown or Fire Island instead? It’d be a much better time.”
“Because you’re bound to get into seedy trouble in those places. But in Rehoboth Beach… I trust you’ll make less of a commotion. It’s in Delaware. Gay-friendly. Low profile. Beach town. Classy enough that they won’t burn you at the stake, but off the radar enough that Perez Hilton won’t bother flying a drone over your house.”
“Delaware? Are you fucking kidding me? Is that even a real state?”
She ignored me. “I have a contact there. James Harkins. Realtor. Former Broadway dancer. Handsome. Efficient. Discreet.”
“You’re trying to pimp me out to a real estate agent?”
“I’m trying tosaveyour career, you dramatic dumbass. You go to Delaware. You lie low. You get a tan, adopt a dog, and maybe bake a fucking pie. Show the world you’re human.”
I sighed and scratched my stubble. “I do like pie.”
Celeste beamed. “I knew you’d see the light.”
I stood up and adjusted my jacket. “Alright. Fine. Book me a one-way ticket to gay Siberia. I’ll talk to your hot realtor friend and go find myself in a beach chair somewhere far from TMZ.”
“Good,” she said, already texting like a demon. “I want your ass on the sand by Friday. Pack light, don’t post anything stupid, and for the love of RuPaul, stay off Grindr.”
“No promises,” I muttered as I turned to leave.
She called after me, “Oh, and Hudson?”
I looked back.
“No thongs in public. Not yet.”
I grinned. “What about private beaches?”
She didn’t answer, but the door clicked behind me, and I knew that meant I was dismissed.
Outside, the world was still spinning. The headlines were still nasty. The fans were still pissed. But for the first time in days, I had a plan. Maybe even a shot at peace.
Delaware. Fucking Delaware.
Let’s see what kind of trouble I cannotget into there.
Miles
Ocean Drive—just saying the name sends a thrill down my spine. It’s one of the most exclusive stretches of property in the Rehoboth Beach area, a secluded crescent nestled just north of Henlopen Acres. You don’t justfindyourself on Ocean Drive. You plan. You dream. Youcurateyour way here. And now, after days of precise planning, I’ve finally brought my vision to life on this coveted slice of paradise.
The house is a showstopper—towering, elegant, and unapologetically proud of its place by the sea. A commanding structure with marine blue shakes, it catches the light in a way that almost feels flirtatious. The beige siding tempers the brightness, grounding it in something sophisticated and serene. As I pull into the driveway, the early afternoon sun washes over the façade, bouncing off the oversized windows and casting golden streaks across the lawn.
My heels crunch softly on the crushed seashell path as I step out of the car. There’s a moment where I just stand still, soaking it in. The air smells impossibly good—a heady mixture of briny ocean breeze and blooming peonies. Lavender dances in the wind, pale and regal, while fat coral geraniums spill over their beds like a spontaneous outburst of joy. The indigo and white hydrangeas loom tall, like gossiping dowagers watching over the entire affair. The landscaping is deliberate but effortless, the way a perfect dinner party should be: organized to the inch but never showy.
Stone paths wind in gentle loops around the perimeter, leading toward a large slate patio outfitted with cushioned seating, string lights, and a sculptural fire pit that I learned was imported from Italy. I can already imagine sitting herein the evenings, martini in hand, the flames flickering like old secrets with the waves in the distance, humming their lullaby.
I exhale deeply, slowly, letting the air fill my chest. This place—it’s not just a house. It’s agesture.A love letter to beauty. To precision. To the way lifeshouldbe lived.
