Page 102 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Hudson added, “Anyway, I’m off-duty tonight. Try the guy by the bathroom with the electric red chest harness—he’s your type with fewer lawsuits.”
And just like that, the shirtless suitor took the hint and vanished into the crowd, leaving behind a faint trail of mandarin-kissed cologne and broken dreams.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding—maybe a touch of jealousy, or maybe just the second-hand exhaustion of watching Hudson play human bait in public.
I turned back to my drink, but before I could take another sip, I felt a light tap on my shoulder.
“Sorry to bother you,” a soft voice said.
I turned around and was met with a young guy—probably in his late twenties, with a friendly face—wearing a lemon-patterned button-down that looked like something I might’ve posted about during one of my Limoncello summer season segments. He looked nervous, but excited.
“I follow you,” he said. “On Instagram. And I just wanted to say—I made your lemon-thyme roasted chicken last week for a little dinner party, and it was incredible. Like… next-level!”
“Oh,” I blinked. “Thank you, that’s—wow! I’m really glad it turned out.”
“My friends were blown away. We paired it with white sangria like you suggested, and, seriously, it was the best meal I’ve ever made.”
“That means the world,” I told him honestly. “I always say cooking is the highest form of love. Food and intention, right?”
He beamed. “Can we get a selfie?”
I obliged, trying to smile without looking too Botoxed, although I’ve never had a needle in my face ever, in my entire life. As for Hudson’sau naturellooks… I had my doubts. As we posed, I held my glass just right for the aesthetic. Click. Another photo for the grid of strangers who somehow knew me as the man who could roast a chicken while monogramming hand towels.
As the fan slipped back into the crowd, Hudson leaned over and said, “You know, I think you might be more famous than I am.”
“Oh, please,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “They follow me for table-scaping tips. You’re the one with an IMDB page.”
“Yeah, and you’re the one with basil-lavender candle collaborations,” he shot back. “Which, honestly, I’d rather have.”
I smiled despite myself.
Then he tilted his head toward the crowd. “Wanna dance?”
I froze. “Now?”
“No, next Thursday,” he deadpanned. “Yes, now. C’mon. I’ve seen a video of you swaying your hips while stress-cleaning an entire living room to Dua Lipa. Don’t play shy.”
“I don’t know… we’re being watched.”
“Let them watch,” he shrugged. “We’ve survived worse.”
I hesitated, then sighed. “Just one dance.”
“That’s how it always starts,” he winked, taking my hand. “Next thing you know, we’re barefoot in Puerto Vallarta.”
And with that, he led me away from the bar, through the colorful haze of lights, into the pulsing heart of Diego’s nightclub. I didn’t look back.
There’s a moment, right before the dance floor takes you, where you can still feel the resistance of your own logic—the quiet pull of order, of routine, of the way you thought the night would go. And then the beat hits, and someone’s hand is in yours, and you’re in it.
That was me.
Hudson dragged me into the crush of bodies, laughter and bass swirling together like the world’s most irreverent symphony. The air smelled like expensive cologne, liquor, and humidity. Sweat-slicked skin brushed against me on all sides. The music throbbed from beneath the floor, up through my soles, into my chest—like it had latched onto my bloodstream. And Hudson was still holding my hand.
He spun to face me.
“Okay,” he shouted over the music. “You’re going to have to let go of your inner Restoration Hardware for five seconds and actually enjoy this.”
I glared at him, but couldn’t help laughing. “Fine. Five seconds. Then I’m going full design critique.”
