Page 109 of The Rehoboth Retreat
And that’s when it hit me.
I wasn’t in my bed. Or even in my own house.
I was outside. On a patio. OnHudson’spatio.
Still fully clothed—thank God—but wrapped in a very plush throw blanket that smelled vaguely of cedarwood, expensive cologne, and…him.
Hudson.
I turned my head slightly and there he was—sprawled on the other end of the couch, snoring softly with one arm flung over the backrest like some kind of moody Renaissance sculpture. His mouth was parted just enough to reveal a hint of teeth, and his hair was a mess of dark, tousled perfection.
The scene should’ve been romantic. Artistic, even. But all I felt was dread.
I sat up too quickly, immediately regretting it as a bolt of nausea and migraine static slammed through my skull. My spine crackled like a haunted staircase, and I winced as I pressed a hand to my temple.
“What the hell…” I murmured to myself, blinking in disorientation.
Had I really spent the entirenight curled up next to Hudson Knight on a patio couch? After storming across the sand like a character from a Jane Austen novel who’d had too much rosé?
Apparently…yes.
The memory of last night came rushing back in flashes—my tears on his porch, the Sassicaia wine, the way he held me so gently, so uncharacteristically tender. We didn’t even kiss again. We justtalked. And then… I’d fallen asleep. In his arms. Like a fool.
What was I thinking?
I stood gingerly, brushing my pants off like that would somehow clean the shame from my soul, and began gathering my things: my phone which was miraculously still charged at 23%, and my dignity, which was nowhere to be found.
I tiptoed toward the steps, wincing with every creak of the wood, desperate to make a clean escape before Hudson woke up and shattered any illusion that I might still be a mysterious, composed figure in his life—rather than a man who drooled in his sleep and probably snored like an anxious hedgehog.
I was two steps away from freedom when—
“Wait!”
His voice, gravelly and confused, sliced through the quiet like a record scratch.
I froze.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand like a cartoon prince who hadn’t quite sobered up yet. His hair was sticking up in several directions, and the blanket had pooled around his waist. The sight was… unfair.
“Where are you going?” he asked, voice still scratchy with sleep.
“I—” I swallowed. “I’m so sorry. About last night. I shouldn’t have come over like that. It was dramatic and messy and I just—”
Hudson held up a hand. “Nope. Shhh. Stop right there.”
I blinked.
“Don’t explain,” he said gently. “Please. Just… don’t.”
I stared at him, speechless, my apology half-formed and hanging in the air like a kite without wind.
He yawned, stretched—obscenely—and looked at me with eyes that were way too clear for someone who’d slept outside with an emotional basket case.
“Let’s just do breakfast,” he said. “Something simple. I know you’re hungry. You get all pouty when you’re underfed.”
My lips twitched despite myself. “I do not get pouty.”
“You do,” he said, already rising and reaching for his sandals. “Your whole mouth turns into parentheses.”
