Page 34 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“And I’m not interested in coddling someone who caused a scene on the beach, ruined my afternoon, and justbarelymanaged to say thank you without following it up with a dick joke.”
She gave me that look again. The quiet one. The one she wore when she sensed I was deflecting with irritation rather than honesty. “You’re right, darling. One meal for just the two of us sounds perfect.”
I nodded, though something tightened in my chest as I said it.
Because the truth was, Hudsonhadthanked me. Sincerely. And hehadlooked… small. Quiet. A little ashamed, even. That wounded look in his eye when the doctor explained the crutches and beach ban for the week—it wasn’t the gaze of a man who liked being taken care of. It was the look of someone who didn’t know how to be.
And that was dangerous.
Not dangerous in the way most people found Hudson Knight dangerous. Not tabloid-dangerous or tequila-fueled yacht fight dangerous.
Emotional dangerous.
The kind of dangerous that made you wonder if someone like that—arrogant, chaotic, overexposed—might actually be lonely underneath it all.
Which, of course, wasnotmy problem.
I shook the thought from my head like a wet dog shaking off bathwater.
As I walked toward the stairs, I heard her call out after me. “But if he staggers over with that boyish grin and a bottle of tequila, I’m answering the door!”
“Then tell him I’m allergic to tequila and poor decisions,” I replied.
She cackled, and the sound echoed through the halls behind me.
I climbed the stairs slowly, not from lethargy but from a low-simmering swirl of thoughts I didn’t quite want to claim. The house was quiet again. The air cool and calm. I passed two guest rooms and continued to my bedroom.
The bed was made, of course. White sheets. Pale blue coverlet. Everything perfectly arranged—except for me.
I crawled under the blanket, pulling it up over my chest, the tension easing just a touch.
Maybe Hudson Knight was just a summer blip. A minor character in my story. A heatwave of glitter and arrogance that would pass.
Or maybe not.
The jury was still out.
And so far, I wasn’t ready to deliver a verdict.
For now, I closed my eyes and let the weight of the day slide off my shoulders—just for a little while.
One cat nap. One meal. Just me and Cecilia.
That was the plan.
And I intended to savor every damn momentof it.
Hudson
Here’s the thing about being sidelined: it sucks. And not in the good way.
I’d barely been home for an hour, and I already felt like I was losing my mind. Everything was too quiet. The ice machine in the fridge sounded like it was mocking me every time it dropped a cube. My stitched-up foot throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache—a constant reminder that I, Hudson Knight, was currently banned from doing anything fun.
No beach. No walks. No rooftop margaritas with scandalous company.
Just me. My foot. And a house that looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine for boring people.
I limped to the kitchen, one crutch dragging behind me like a disobedient child. The other I’d abandoned somewhere near the entryway because I was too stubborn to admit I needed both. I leaned my weight on my good leg and tested my wounded one. It was tolerable—if I didn’t fully commit to standing on it. Kind of like my last three relationships. Supportive from a distance, but not reliable under pressure.
