Page 97 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“Oh, make no mistake. I amverybad. But I’m trying.”
Miles finally looked up, eyes soft, amused. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, here you are, feeding me like I’m your most manic houseguest.”
“I’ve had worse.”
Cecilia gasped. “Who?Name names.”
“No,” Miles said firmly, but now he was laughing, really laughing, the kind that warmed the whole table.
We passed plates, told stories, and refilled wine. At one point, Hudson-of-the-past would’ve made a crude joke or hijacked the spotlight with some tabloid-worthy tale, but not tonight.
Tonight, I just wanted to be here. In this moment. With these people.
Cecilia toasted tounexpected pairings, and Miles groaned but clinked glasses anyway. I didn’t say it out loud, but I liked the sound of that.
Unexpected. Yeah, that felt right.
This whole night—hell, thiswhole weekend—had been nothing but curveballs, and yet, somehow, it all clicked together like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle I didn’t know I’d been missing.
The branzino was nearly gone. The lemony pasta was demolished. I had no idea how many glasses of wine I’d had, but I didn’t care. Miles had already stood to clear some plates before I could object. He moved like clockwork, gracefully, with no wasted effort.
A work of art in motion.
I sat back, plate licked clean, belly full, and heart… oddly lighter.
God help me.
I think I might actually be catching feelings.
And that pasta? Probably didn’t help.
If I ever disappear from the face of the Earth, just know I died doing the unthinkable:drying dishes.
Yep.
Celebrity. Tabloid darling. Professional trainwreck goblin.
Caught red-handed with a dish towel and an attitude.
And what’s worse? I wasn’t even mad about it. Because Miles—Mr. Culinary Cathedral himself—was bustling around the kitchen like a caffeinated cheetah, doing crisis management. It was like watching an Olympic event in domestic perfection. Elbows tight, movements precise, lips pursed in thatplease-don’t-help-me-you’ll-screw-it-upkind of way.
I loved it. It made me want to cause problems.
“I canhandlethis,” he said for the third time, snatching a serving platter from my hands like I’d threatened to lick it clean in front of the Pope.
“I’m sure you can,” I said, resting against the white Calacatta quartz island. “But it’s kinda hot watching you scrub that pan like it insulted your soufflé.”
He shot me a look. One of those devastatingly mild, eyebrow-arched expressions that could probably be used to discipline a room of feral children.
“Hudson, you’re going toknock something over,” was all he said—simple, pointed.
And damn him for it. He really was a shady queen—even if it wasn’t intentional.. It was just subtle enough to call out my clumsinessandmy current blood-alcohol level, but delivered in that sly, innocent tone that left you no real ground to push back. Especially not me—with a stitched-up foot and zero balance to stand on, figuratively or otherwise.
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Hell, it might be the last if you keep letting me linger unsupervised,” I replied.
He huffed and turned toward the sink, and I took the opportunity to slide behind him, my hips barely grazing his as I reached for a dish towel.
