Page 29 of The Rehoboth Retreat
He stayed silent for a few beats before adding, “Let’s just say I don’t feel like getting personal with someone who still thinks tank tops count as formal wear.”
“Ouch. That was designer. Vintage Alexander McQueen.”
“I rest my case,” he quipped.
I roared again, louder this time. Despite his best efforts, Miles Whitaker was…warming. Not much. But enough.
“You know,” I said, turning my body just a little more toward him despite the pain. “You keep calling me a disaster, but you’re the one voluntarily driving me to the hospital instead of letting me get scooped up by some sunburned EMT who thinks antiseptic is a personality. So, either you’re a closet masochist, or you don’t hate me as much as you pretend.”
His mouth tightened. “Let’s not confuse basic human decency with liking someone.”
“Too late,” I said with a wink. “I’m already picturing us in matching hospital gowns.”
He rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might sprain.
Still, for all the sarcasm and eye rolls, he didn’t kick me out of the SUV. And in my book? That was practically a fucking love letter.
We rode the rest of the way in silence, but it wasn’t quite the same. The tension had shifted. Less ice storm, more awkward truce. I leaned my head against the window and let the sound of the tires lull me into a haze, trying not to think too hard about the weird little ache in my chest that had nothing to do with my foot.
Maybe—just maybe—this summer wasn’t going to be a total disaster after all.
Or it would. And at least I’d bleed dramatically doing it.
We pulled into Beebe Hospital about ten minutes after our weird-ass ceasefire was born in the front seat of Miles Whitaker’s luxury SUV. The kind of hospital that looked like it hosted way too many charity galas, all beige walls, with calming abstract art that screamed, “we’re trying very hard to make you forget someone probably died here yesterday.”
Miles parked in a designated visitor spot—of course, he did—and helped me hobble toward the entrance like I was his reluctant prom date. I was still shirtless, mind you. Sand glued to my back, blood crusted around the makeshift dressing on my foot, and the faint scent of seaweed doing me no favors.
We approached the check-in desk. The receptionist gave us a once-over, eyes lingering just long enough on the blood to widen.
“Emergency?” she asked.
“What gave it away?” I replied.
Miles shot me a warning look.
“He stepped on something sharp at the beach,” Miles said, all business. “He’s still bleeding, and I think he needs stitches.”
“Name?”
“Hudson Knight.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
Ah, recognition. Great.
I could already see the tabloid headline:Washed-Up Actor Bleeds on Coastal Hospital Reception Desk.
She handed me a clipboard and a pen. “Fill this out. Insurance info on the second page. We’ll call you back as soon as we can.”
I took the clipboard, muttering a thanks that sounded more like a growl, and gimped over to the waiting area. Miles followed and sat two seats away because, of course, he needed personal space like he needed air.
The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and low-grade anxiety. A toddler wailed somewhere in the back. A man in scrubs walked by, sipping iced coffee with a straw that squeaked every time he sucked.
“So,” I said, glancing at Miles while scribbling half-legible information onto the form. “You do this often? Take in stray celebrities with bleeding feet?”
“Only on Tuesdays,” he said flatly. “I decided to make an exception today.”
I chuckled and winced. The throbbing in my foot was back with a vengeance. “Damn, this hurts. Can I put you down as my emergency contact?”
