Page 105 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“I don’t deserve you,” he said finally, voice quiet and raw.
I blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ve got baggage, Miles. Likesteamer-trunk-on-a-cruise-shipbaggage. Emotional carry-ons, scandalous checked luggage. And you… you’re refined. You’re polished. You’re a freaking lifestyle empire wrapped in botanical-scented grace. And I am—”
“A hot mess. You said that already,” I quickly shot back.
“Iam, though!” he laughed bitterly. “And I don’t want to drag you through my mess. The paparazzi. The exes. The burnouts. My career is a walking punchline half the time.”
I stared at him, heat rising in my chest. “You think Idon’thave baggage?”
“Not like mine.”
“You think Iwanteda divorce? Do you think it’s fun rebuilding a life that the world thinks was perfect? My reputation is always one scandal away from imploding, and it took everything in me to come here and pretend like I was okay.”
“Iknow,” he said,pain in his voice. “And I don’t want to be the next reason you’re not.”
I stepped back. “So, what? That’s it? You get scared and decide to walk away?”
He didn’t answer. He just looked at me with this complicated mixture of affection and guilt and longing that made me want to scream.
“I think,” he said slowly. “That I might be falling hard and fast for you. And if I keep going… I’ll ruin it.”
I didn’t know what to say.
I watched him turn, every step toward the beach house, pulling a little bit of the air out of the night. He didn’t say goodbye. He just walked. Sand kicking up behind his heels. Shoulders stiff. Jaw set.
He disappeared into the darkness ahead.
And I just stood there.
Mouth parted. Heart breaking. Wondering what the hell just happened.
Hudson
I laid there, flat on my back, limbs splayed out like I’d just been sacrificed to the gods of emotional dysfunction. The ceiling fan whirred above me, its slow rotation doing jack shit to cool the sting behind my eyes or the weight sitting heavy on my chest like a damn grief-forged anvil.
The sheets felt too soft. The silence too loud. My body was home, but my brain was out back smoking a cigarette in the alley of bad decisions.
I hadn’t turned on the lights when I came back in. Just stripped off my clothes in the living room like some melodramatic twink in an off-Broadway breakup montage, shuffled to my room in my briefs, and collapsed onto the overpriced bed I’d bought, thinking it would be fun to haveone nice thingthat wasn’t from a designer who also did handbags.
And now? I was staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers. Spoiler alert: it did not.
Was walking away from Miles on the beach the right thing to do?
Fuck if I knew.
Maybe I thought it would be noble. That it would be better to bow out now—before I fully ruined Miles Whitaker’s beautifully coordinated, Crate-and-Barrel-on-a-cocktail budget life. Before the tabloids could sniff out the truth and turn his lemon sorbet serenity into a war zone.
But noble felt a lot like cowardly when you’re alone in your boxer briefs, wondering if you just self-sabotaged your one shot at actual human connection.
Jesus. That kiss. The way he looked at me. The way hefelt—like someone you don’t just stumble into after last call at a party you weren’t invited to.
And it wasn’t just the kiss. It was everything. How he walked. How he organized pantry staples like they were the crown jewels. How he scolded me with that uptight, prissy-authoritative voice that somehow still turned me on.
Who the hell was I kidding?
I’d never met anyone like him.
