Page 91 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Because I wasn’t hiding anymore.
I wasn’t panicking anymore.
I was still here—flawed, human, hopeful—and the world, surprisingly, was still turning.
Hudson
I was mid-story about the time I got kicked out of a Cannes afterparty for spilling a tray of lobster croquettes on Cate Blanchett’s Louboutins when I heard it.
A soft, distinctclickfrom upstairs.
Both Cecilia and I froze like two misbehaving kids caught in the liquor cabinet.
It wasn’t the HVAC.
It wasn’t a ghost.
It was a door.
And unless Topper had figured out how to operate a brushed nickel doorknob with his little paws, that meant one thing.
Miles.
Cecilia set her wineglass down on the white kitchen island so slowly and carefully. It was like watching an artifact being placed in the Louvre.
We listened.
Silence.
Then, the gentle pad of socked footsteps. Calm. Even. Not the frantic, nervous shuffle I was expecting. Not the stompy-angry cadence of a man ready to yell at me for dragging him into tabloid hell.
And then—like some kind of gay wraith emerging from his fortress of solitude—Miles appeared.
And holy hell, he looked…flawless.
Not justI’ve been crying for hours but pulled myself togetherflawless. No. I mean, full-on magazine cover,11:00 PM martini hour at the Carlyle Hotel flawless. Crisp oxford shirt. Pressed trousers. A belt that probably cost more than my last PR retainer. His hair was combed back, his skin suspiciously dewy, and his expression?
Neutral.
Not chipper. Notfurious. Just… straight-up neutral.
Like a bank teller. Or an assassin.
He walked in like he’d just returned from pilates instead of a public meltdown.
“Evening,” he said simply, as if we hadn’t all just been metaphorically (and maybe literally) fetal a few hours ago. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
Cecilia opened her mouth, then shut it, clearly debating whether this was a trap.
“Miles,” she began cautiously. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” he said, brushing past her on his way to the pantry. “I just needed a moment to reset. All is well.”
I blinked. “Did… did someone microdose you? Or am I having a stroke?”
He didn’t answer, but reached into a cabinet and pulled out three different salts—Himalayan pink, flaky sea salt in a tin, and something that looked like it had come from a volcanic crater in Iceland.
I watched him, mildly horrified and 94% turned on.
