Page 28 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Progress.
I glanced around the car, taking in the unblemished dashboard, the subtle lemon scent, the tasteful little basket of hand sanitizer, and the individually wrapped mints in the cup holder.
Of course he had mints.
Miles probably vacuumed his car with a lint roller.
“So,” I said, trying to sound casual but probably coming off as just annoying. “Do you always carry a first-aid kit around? Or do you just expect the beach to regularly erupt in bloodshed?”
“I’m prepared,” he said simply. “That’s what adults do.”
“Harsh. I’m an adult, too. I just prefer my emergencies spontaneous and my plans nonexistent.”
“That explains a lot.”
I chuckled. The throbbing in my foot was making me woozy, but it was kind of nice to have someone to spar with. Miles was like a grumpy puzzle box wrapped in Angora and judgment.
“So, what’s your deal, Alphabet Boy?” I asked. “You always this tightly wound? Or is it just when you’re rescuing barefoot idiots from bleeding out on your beach day?”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “I don’t have to answer that.”
“Come on. We’re in a car. Trapped. No one’s around to judge you for being mildly human.”
He didn’t look at me, but after a moment, he said, “I run a lifestyle brand. I curate content, home organization, wellness, and food. That sort of thing.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I know. You’re like the gay Martha Stewart.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Well, you definitely have better cheekbones.”
He didn’t respond, but I could feel the temperature in the car shift ever so slightly. Like the ice wall he’d built between us had a tiny fissure forming.
“What about you?” he asked after a beat. “Besides injuring yourself and leaving trails of chaos in your wake.”
“Actor,” I said. “Mostly action movies. Some cult classics. Some trash. Oh, I once did a cameo on a cooking show and burned rice on camera. The internet had a field day.”
“Sounds about right,” he quickly came back with.
“Hey, I’ve got range. I can cry on cue and mix a killer margarita.”
“Let me guess—you live in LA?”
“God, no. Miami. At least for the most part. I only go to LA for gigs when I need to.”
He nodded, clearly unimpressed.
“What about you? Is Rehoboth full time for you or do are you just summering like a WASP in heat?” I asked.
He stiffened slightly. “Moved here recently full time. My actual house is just ten minutes away. But I needed a change of scene, which is why I’m staying in the house next toyours this weekend.”
There was something evasive in his tone, a subtle dodge I recognized because I’d used it a thousand times myself.
“Why a change of scene? Is it divorce? A breakup? Midlife crisis?”
His eyes flicked toward me briefly. “That’s none of your business.”
I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Boundaries. Respect. All that jazz.”
