Page 119 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I knew I had to leave. Not just for the job. But because of this… thing with Miles. Whatever it was, it had cracked something open in me, and I wasn’t entirely sure I liked it.
And yet, even now, I felt this urge. Like… I needed to tell him.
I reached for my phone and opened our thread, typing away.
HUDSON:
Hey. I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. But, I just got offered a movie.A real one. Like… big-budget, swords-and-capes, based-on-a-video-game movie. I have to be in LA by next week, meaning I should probably leave Rehoboth sooner rather than later to read the script and get a head start. I wanted you to know. I wanted you to be the first to know. Because even if you hate me, none of this would’ve happened without you. So yeah… I’m leaving Rehoboth Beach soon. I don’t expect a reply. Just thought you should hear it from me.
I hit send.
And then I threw my phone across the couch and flopped back again, arms sprawled like I was making a snow angel in shame.
Maybe this was it.
The end of the weirdest, most beautiful chapter I’d accidentally stumbled into.
And the beginning of anothermess.
Because nothing saysgrowthlike a sword-wielding gay icon with unresolved emotional trauma and a one-way ticket to Los Angeles.
Have you ever packed a bag with the delusion that you’re in control of your own life?
Yeah, that was me.
I had one foot out the door, a duffel stuffed with designer sweaters I never wore, and enough skincare to moisturize a small village. I tossed in a printed script, a phone charger, and that stupid bottle of Miles’ lavender linen spray heaccidentallyleft behind—because, apparently, I like to marinate in heartbreak. I could have packed more, but I was trying to make a clean getaway.
I gave the place one last glance. My beach house. My little rehab-from-chaos oasis. And now I was leaving it behind like a one-night stand I didn’t want to cuddle.
Keys in hand. Sunglasses on. Car in reverse.
I wassecondsfrom driving off into the golden-fucking-sunset when—
BAM.
A blur of khaki and desperation hurled itself directly into the path of my convertible.
I slammed on the brakes so hard my soul briefly evacuated my body.
What the hell—
I squinted.
And then I saw him.
Miles Whitaker.
Hair mussed from the wind, face flushed, and eyes wide and glassy like a man possessed by equal parts heartbreak and poor decision-making.
He stood there, right in front of my hood, arms out like some gay Moses trying to part the Rehoboth summer traffic.
I put the car in park and practically launched myself out.
“Miles?! Are you trying todiein front of my car so I’m legally forced to stay?! I’m flattered, but—”
“Shut up!” he yelled.
And then heranat me.
