Page 117 of The Rehoboth Retreat
A pause. Still no footsteps. No movement inside.
“Yeah, people might still think you had bad judgment for being with me. But that’ssomuch better than being seen as a cheater, right?”
I leaned my forehead against the door.
“And anyway… I think you’re right. I’ve caused enough problems for you this weekend. Hell, probably for your wholeyear.Actually, probably your whole synced Google Calendar for the next five years, for that matter.”
I let out a bitter little laugh.
“You should enjoy this last day to yourself. Let it be peaceful. I promise—I won’t bother you again. You don’t have to worry about Hudson Knight traipsing through your curated beach retreat like a walkingtabloid headline any longer.”
My voice cracked a little.
“But… thank you for making this an unforgettable weekend. For letting me see what it’s like to feelwantedandsafefor once. I’m never gonna meet a guy like you again, Miles Whitaker.”
I swallowed.
“Even I know that,” I said, ending my spiel.
I stepped away from the door.
No sound behind it. Just the low hum of silence and, somewhere far off, the sound of waves licking the shore like they had no idea the storm had just passed through.
I walked back down the stairs, out through the front door, and into the sun.
Alone again. Just me and my regret.
Fond fucking memories,I thought.
And then I walked home.
The minute I stepped back into my beach house, I peeled off my shirt like it owed me money and collapsed face-first into the leather sectional like a hungover raccoon who’d just ruined someone’s wedding.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t dramatically throw a martini glass into the fireplace like I was auditioning for theReal Housewives of Rehoboth Beach—though I was tempted. Instead, I just lay there, sprawled across the sofa, letting the silence wrap around me like one of those weighted anxiety blankets they sell on late-night TV.
I’d done the right thing.
Right?
Miles was upstairs in that pretty little beach house, probably lighting a Diptyque candle and folding embroidered towels in the precise middle of a breakdown. And me? I was here. Alone. Emotionally bankrupt. Spiritually constipated. And—
BRRRRRRZZZZ.
My phone buzzed from the coffee table like a damn vulture circling roadkill. I groaned, reached over blindly,and swiped it.
It was a text from my agent, Celeste.
Of course, it was.
Celeste:
Call me ASAP. Don’t be a diva. This is big.
I stared at it. Blinked. Grunted. And then hit dial.
“Hudson, baby,” she answered on the first ring, voice all sharp edges and espresso. “Why does it sound like you’re face-down on something expensive?”
“I am,” I mumbled. “And if you make me get up, I swear, I’m going to scream.”
