Page 101 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“Is that…?”
“Oh my god, it’s him—”
"That’s Miles from the kitchen thing, right?”
"No way, that’s the guy from the beach photo.”
“I guess Hudson and him really are a thing.”
“They looking for a third?”
“Get me in a three-way with them.”
I should’ve turned around and walked out. I should’ve never worn loafers. I should’ve stayed home with Topper and a chilled bottle of rosé and a rerun ofAntiques Roadshow.
But instead, I squared my shoulders, followed Hudson, and said the one thing I always said in situations like this:
“I need a drink.”
We beelined to the bar. People parted like we were royalty or about to start a fire. Hudson leaned in close to a bartender with a neon whistle around his neck and ordered two cocktails that had names I didn’t catch but sounded vaguely illegal.
“Relax,” Hudson said, nudging me as we waited. “They’ll stop staring, eventually.”
“You said it was over. That people moved on.”
“Theydidmove on. They’re just excited to see their favorite lifestyle influencer standing next to their favorite disaster.”
The bartender slid over two drinks. Mine was pink. It had basil and grapefruit and a little edible flower floating on top like a mocking insult to my masculinity.
But I took a sip.
And it was shockinglydivine.
Hudson raised his glass toward me, smiling over the rim with that cocky, perfectly engineered face of his.
“To going off script,” he said.
I clinked my glass to his, eyes scanning the sea of lights and sweaty dancers and the infinite possibilities of disaster swirling in the air around us.
“To hell,” I said. “Might as well make it fun.”
I had barely taken two sips of my pink drink when I felt the air shift around us. It was the kind of shift you feel right before someone approaches you—uninvited, unfiltered, and, in this case, utterly shirtless. A chiseled man—tan, sculpted, and glistening like he’d been dipped in hot waxy caramel and filtered through a thirst trap—sauntered up to Hudson like a moth to a neon disaster.
“Excuse me,” the guy said, flashing a megawatt smile. “Are you Hudson Knight?”
Hudson set down his drink and smirked. “I’m afraid so. You caught me in the wild.”
“Can I get a selfie?”
“Sure,” Hudson replied, with the kind of resigned enthusiasm you’d expect from a man who knew he was doomed to be adored.
They leaned in. Click. Flash. The guy took a second shot just to make sure. Then came the flirting.
“You know,” the guy said, inching closer, “I always had a thing for the bad boys. Especially the ones with a reputation.”
Hudson raised an eyebrow. “A reputation for what? Arson or emotional unavailability?”
The guy laughed like it was charming instead of a warning.
