Page 31 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I hobbled to my front steps, paused, and looked at his retreating figure.
Great. Now, I owed a lifestyle guru a favor.
Just fucking great.
Miles
The sun had dipped low by the time I reached the porch, casting a lazy amber glow across the beach house’s cedar shakes. It should have felt like a relief—coming home after a detour to Beebe Hospital that most certainly hadn’t been on the day’s itinerary—but instead of that familiar serene exhale, I stood still, one foot on the mat, the other resting on the warm wooden planks of the front porch, suspended in thought.
Hudson Knight.
The name alone felt like a parody. A ridiculous, over-seasoned stage name you’d find plastered across a bottle of budget cologne or headlining a scandalous Las Vegas magic show. And yet, there he was: bloody, barefoot, belligerent—and somehow also vulnerable—in a way that caught me off guard.
I leaned against the porch column, letting the coastal breeze comb through my hair. My fingers absentmindedly brushed the hem of my shirt, still faintly wrinkled from our unexpected roadside adventure. I should have been annoyed. I should have come home ready to rant, decompress, and pour myself a stiff glass of wine. But I wasn’t angry. Not exactly. I was…off-kilter.
There were flashes of something in Hudson. Fleeting, subtle. Little glints of sincerity tucked between the bravado and profanity. The way he apologized—awkwardly, sure, but earnestly. Or how he went quiet during the ride, fidgeting not out of restlessness but, I suspected, embarrassment. Not that he’d admit that aloud.
I could still hear him, sprawled in the passenger seat like some half-dressed hurricane of bad decisions, muttering, “I’m sure I’m the last person you wanted to help out today.” That rare trace of humility lingered longer than I liked.
He wasn’t just obnoxious. He was lonely. It hung on him like humidity in August—cloying, heavy, hard to ignore once you noticed it. And I had noticed it.
Damn it all.
I ran my hand along the smooth white railing, eyes trailing toward the path that led to the driveway, where the imprint of our tires still pressed faintly into the crushed shells and gravel. Hudson hadn’t even argued when I offered to drive him. Hadn’t made some joke about it or turned it into some sexual innuendo. He’d just nodded, murmured something close to gratitude, and limped into the car like he didn’t quite know how to ask for help.
That, more than anything, had stuck with me.
I shook my head slowly, jaw tightening. Maybe—just maybe—beneath the glitter and snark, there was something real buried in there in his shell of a heart. Not warmth, exactly. But something adjacent. Like a warm lump of coal wrapped in gold lamé and bad decisions. Potential energy, waiting to ignite.
It didn’t make him less exhausting. But it did make him…complicated.
And I hated complicated.
I took a slow breath, letting the salt air fill my lungs. My gaze lingered on the sea grass swaying gently in the wind, the horizon beyond it melting into dusky pinks and bruised blues. Somewhere, a gull cried. A dog barked faintly down the lane. But otherwise, it was quiet. Peaceful.
I should go inside. My mother would be wondering where I was. The diffuser was probably still running. Dinner still needed to be prepped. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to cross the threshold.
Instead, I stood rooted to the spot, arms crossed, staring off toward the far edge of the neighboring lot—the one Hudson Knight now occupied.
Of course, he bought the place next door. The universe had a perverse sense of humor.
I sighed.
This Rehoboth retreat was supposed to be about rest. Resetting. Recovery.
Instead, I had nursed a half-naked movie star with a bleeding foot and a penchant for debauchery. And somehow, I wasn’t even that mad about it.
God help me.
I adjusted my posture and glanced back at my own front door, still closed, waiting. But I lingered just a moment longer, watching the sky shift colors like a watercolor bleeding across paper.
Whatever this was—this strange, tense, mildly deranged connection—I had a feeling it wasn’t over yet.
And for reasons I couldn’t fully name… I wasn’t dreading it.
The moment I stepped through the front door, I felt the air-conditioning hit me like a blessing from the heavens. My skin was still warm and tight from the sun, my temples lightly pulsing with the kind of fatigue that came less from exertion and more from emotional whiplash. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a breath, as if the house itself might absorb some of the psychic residue left behind from Hudson Knight’s unexpected spiral into my afternoon.
So much for a tranquil beach day.
