Page 111 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Well. Speak of the uptight devil.
“Owen,” I said, letting the name fall like a pebble into a still pond.
There he stood, as polished and symmetrical as ever. Crisp button-down. Light-gray sport coat. Hair trimmed within an inch of its life. He even smelled expensive, like those perfumed department store counters that give you a headache after five minutes.
“Hi, Cecilia,” he said.
I stared at him. He looked nervous.
Good.
I rested my manicured fingers on the doorframe and arched a single brow—one of my finer talents. “My, my. Did the real estate market go into cardiac arrest, or did you just miss being in a house with taste?”
He gave a weak smile. “Is Miles home?”
I didn’t blink. I didn’t move.
And inside me, something sharp and protective stirred like a dragon stretching its wings.
Miles wasn’t home.
And I wasn’t sure I wanted Owen to be, either.
There’s nothing quite so ruinous to a good morning as an ex-husband on your doorstep—especially when the ex-husband in question isn’t yours, but your son’s. I had just resumed sipping my grapefruit-vodka spritzer, now slightly watered down by melting ice, when Owen had the audacity to stand there with all the contrition of a corporate apology letter.
And now?
Now he was trying tocome inside.
“No,” I said sharply, positioning myself like a duchess guarding a royal vault. “Miles is not here. And even if he were, this would not be your cue to charge in like some overconfident hedge fund manager navigating a midlife spiral.”
He frowned. “Cecilia—”
“Don’t ‘Cecilia’ me like we’re co-stars in some Bravo reunion special. You cheated on my son. And not in a sexy, thrilling, guilty way, either. In a cold, soul-killing way. Now, unless you’ve come bearing a time machine or handwritten apologies notarized by Jesus himself, I suggest you keep that polished loafer outside my door.”
But Owen wasn’t listening. His eyes drifted past me into the house like he already owned it. Like hestillbelieved he belonged here.
“I want to see him,” he said. “Talk to him. I made a mistake.”
I laughed. A full, glorious, throat-forward cackle that bounced off the foyer walls.
“Youmade a mistake?” I repeated. “Darling, mistakes are for typos and poor caviar parings. You detonated a marriage. You want sympathy? Try a church. Not this house.”
“He’s my husband.”
“No.Was. Past tense,” I reminded him. “You gave up that title the moment you let your dick go sightseeing.”
That landed. His jaw clenched. But I wasn’t finished.
“I know why you’re here, Owen. And it isn’t because you suddenly remembered how lovely Miles’ laugh is or how well he folds a linen napkin. You’re here because you saw the tabloid photos. The ones where he’s smiling with Hudson Knight.”
“That’s not true.”
“Please,” I said, waving my hand. “I know you practically sprinted here the moment you saw them together. You always liked having Miles on your arm like a designer bag. But the moment someone else picked him up? Suddenly, you remember you’re in love? Give me a break.”
He brushed past me.
I gasped.“Excuse me—!”
