Page 19 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Of course. Ofcourse, he was my next-door neighbor for the weekend. I felt my soul leave my body.
“Great. Just perfect,” I muttered.
“You okay there, Mr. West Elm Breakdown? You’re looking a little pale,” Hudson said, clearly delighted.
I squared my shoulders. “Look. I’m not trying to startanything. Just—keep it down. Or, at the very least, keep it dressed.”
“You got it, Captain Cardigan.”
His twink tugged his arm. “Come back inside. I wanna show you that thing with the whipped cream again.”
“Duty calls,” Hudson said to me with a wink before turning back toward the glowing beast of a house.
I stood frozen for a moment, Topper watching me like he, too, questioned every decision that had led us here.
Hudson Knight.Next door.
Well, fine. I’d just avoid the property line like it was radioactive. Pretend the West Wing of my little beach kingdom didn’t exist. Easy. Totally doable.
I muttered a prayer to the gods of coastal zoning ordinances and turned back toward my own sanctuary.
Topper trotted ahead like nothing happened. And me?
I just mentally added “install privacy hedges” to tomorrow’s to-do list, even if I was only staying for three more days. It would totally be worth it.
Hudson
It was almost 11:00 AM when I cracked open one eye and immediately regretted it. The sun had barged in through the windows like it paid rent, slicing across the bedsheets in those judgmental, golden rays that screamed, “You’re too old for this shit.”
I groaned and rolled over, face smashing into the pillow. The sheets smelled like tequila, sweat, and something vaguely floral—which could’ve been the trick’s cologne or the scented candle I accidentally knocked over mid-thrust. Who’s to say?
Speaking of the trick, he was gone. No dramatic goodbye, no crumpled napkin with a fake number, not even a passive-aggressive note scrawled in eyeliner on my mirror. Just the faint indent of a body in my sheets and one of my beach towels crumpled on the floor like a flag of conquest.
Classy.
But hey, the sex was good, and he didn’t try to cuddle after, which, honestly, makes him husband material in my book.
I stretched, bones popping like bubble wrap, and reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up like a slot machine: 48 unread texts, 11 missed calls, and a flood of DMs that could fill the Atlantic.
One message read:
You going to be at Nolan’s pool party today? Bring extra tequila and shenanigans.
Another:
Brunch at Somewhere? Wear something that says, “I’m emotionally available but still a slut.”
Well,no problem there.
And one from a guy whose name I couldn’t remember but whose abs I definitely did:
Saw you at Aqua last night. Still thinking about those jeans. Hit me up if you’re free ;).
Charming. And terrifying. My liver whimpered just looking at those invites.
I sat up, head pounding like there was a tiny drag queen doing a death drop behind my eyes. My tongue felt like I’d licked the inside of a beach umbrella. Hydration was the goal, and survival was the vibe.
Dragging myself to the mirror, I examined the damage. Bloodshot eyes, a scruffier-than-usual beard, hair doing its best impression of a hedge after a fucking hurricane. Still hot, obviously, just…haunted.
