Page 120 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Before I could finish a thought, helunged—not like a cinematic, slow-motion lunge, but like a full-bodied, emotionally unstabletackleinto my chest.
His arms wrapped around me like I was the last designer tote on sale at Bergdorf’s.
“I’ve never—” he choked, his voice thick. “I’veneverfelt this way before.”
I blinked. “I mean, fair, but we’ve both felt feelings before, Miles. You’ve been married. I’ve been drunk in a Denny’s.”
He pulled back slightly to glare at me, eyes shining. “Stop. Just let me say this.”
I shut up.
Because he looked wrecked in that beautiful, messy, movie-ending kind of way. Hair windblown, shirt wrinkled, heart exposed. And holy hell, it was doing something to me.
“I didn’t know it could hurt like this,” he said, his voice trembling. “I didn’t expect to fall so fast for someone like you.”
“Ouch,” I muttered. “Someonelike me?”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
“But Ididfall,” he went on. “And that’s why I got so upset. Because I trusted you. Ibelievedyou.”
I swallowed hard.
“And yes, hearing that you kept something from me? That hurt. But I realized something—”
He pressed his forehead to mine.
“I’d rather be hurt by you and work through it… than spend one more morning pretending I don’t care.”
I stood there, arms locked around him, stunned.
“You… forgive me?” I whispered.
He nodded. “I don’t want to hold on to anger. I want to hold on toyou.”
Fuck me to hell.
That was it. I melted.
“Thank you,” I said. And I meant it. I felt it in every fucking rib.
Our lips met—soft at first, then deeper, urgent. Not like a steamy make-out in a nightclub bathroom. But like two people clinging to something rare. Somethingreal.
And it didn’t matter that we were standing in the middle of my driveway, car door open, wind whipping around us like a dramatic indie film climax. All that mattered was that his mouth tasted like morning coffee and redemption, and his hands were gripping the back of my shirt like he never wanted to let go.
Eventually, we broke apart, breathless.
I looked down at him. “So… do you wanna, like, come back inside? I’ve got leftover white truffle popcorn and half a bottle of regret.”
He laughed—likereallylaughed, a warm sound I wanted to trap in a jar and play on repeat.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”
We walked back into the house, arms brushing, that strange new warmth blooming in my chest again—something suspiciously close to hope.
For once, I wasn’t running.
