Page 22 of The Rehoboth Retreat
To run.
By the time I jogged back up the driveway of the OceanDrive house, the sun was full and high, and the world had begun to stir. I wiped the sweat from my brow with the edge of my sleeve, stepped inside, and immediately caught the familiar scent of fresh lemon and toasted brioche.
“You’re up early,” my mother called from the kitchen. “Again.”
“You say that like it’s new,” I replied.
She was perched at the quartz island in a lemon-yellow robe, sipping coffee with the poise of a woman who’d hosted fundraisers for governors and told them where to stand. Her perfectly coiffed hair was swept into a low chignon, and her reading glasses balanced on the edge of her nose as she flipped through theWall Street Journallike it was light gossip.
“I went for a run,” I said, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “Ocean Drive to Gordon’s Pond and back.”
“Of course you did,” she said, peering over her glasses. “You look positively glowy.”
“That would be sweat,” I informed her.
“Same difference.”
I poured myself some water, the ice clinking as I swirled the glass. “You will never believe who lives next door.”
She looked up, genuinely intrigued. “Don’t tell me it’s the Hammonds again. I thought they moved to Boca.”
“Worse. Hudson Knight.”
Her brows lifted like sails catching wind. “The actor? The beautiful disaster in designer sunglasses?”
“That’s the one.”
“Oh, Miles. Based on your tone, I have a hunch you’re not his greatest fan.”
“Exactly,” I said, collapsing onto a stool across from her. “I ran into him at Aqua last night—verbally sparred with him, actually. Then I saw him again, fully naked on the beach outside our house with some twink who probably thinks art is spelled with a dollar sign.”
She sputtered on her coffee. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
“Well, the house next door did go on the market not too long ago,” she said, tapping her nails against the porcelain. “But I assumed it would be purchased by someone with taste.”
“Clearly, taste wasn’t in the disclosures.”
“Did he recognize you?” she asked.
“Oh, he knew exactly who I was. Probably from Instagram. He called me Mr. Napkin Fold and Alphabet Boy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Alphabet Boy? Because of your labeled spice rack?”
“And probably the linen closet.”
“That bastard,” she whispered in disbelief.
I laughed, shaking my head. “He’s exhausting, Mother. He reeks of tequila and delusion. But he’s also dangerously charming in that chaotic, ‘I might burn your house down but bring you a bottle of champagne afterward’ kind of way.”
“Sounds like your father.”
I winced. “Don’t say that.”
“Sorry. But what do you plan to do about it?”
“Avoid him. Completely,” I responded.
