Page 35 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“You’re fine,” I muttered to myself, shuffling to the bar cart. “Just a little flesh wound. Totally manageable. Probably doesn’t even need stitches. Probably could’ve used duct tape and a prayer.”
I eyed the booze options like a castaway, searching for fresh water.
Tequila? Tempting.
Vodka? Too basic.
Whiskey? Too dramatic.
My fingers landed on a bottle of mezcal—smoky, brooding, with just enough bite to match my mood.
I poured a generous amount over ice in a heavy tumbler,then added a splash of lime juice. Not for balance. Just to feel like I was doing something culinary.
“Cheers, asshole,” I muttered to my reflection in the glass. I took a sip and felt the sting of smoke and citrus. It was exactly what I needed.
The house was too big for one person, which I normally loved—it gave the illusion of power. But right now, it just echoed. Every breath sounded like a sigh. Every footstep a ghost of good times gone to hell. I dragged myself to the living room, kicked my stitched foot up on an ottoman like some tragic war veteran, and sighed dramatically.
“Maybe I should post something,” I mumbled. “Make a TikTok. ‘Crippled, but cute.’ That could trend, right?”
I stared at my phone but didn’t open any apps. I didn’t want to be seen today. Not like this. Not stitched up and sulking like a B-list actor who got written out of a soap opera.
I looked out the window instead.
The ocean was doing its thing, all majestic and endless and unaffected. Meanwhile, I was stuck inside, feeling like someone had pressed pause on my chaos.
And then there was Miles.
Miles freaking Whitaker.
Regal posture, well-structured cheekbones, perfectly irritated every time I opened my mouth. He should’ve left me on the beach to bleed out in front of the tourists. But no—he wrapped my foot, helped me hobble, drove me to the hospital in his lemon-scented SUV. The man smelled like Gwenyth Paltrow’s linen closet and compassion, and it was frankly disturbing.
Even worse, he’d beennice.
Like, actually nice. Not the fake, PR-trained, Instagram-caption kind of nice. He was quiet, sure, but he’d listened. He hadn’t mocked me for panicking when the doctor said no beach. He didn’t even flinch when I apologized, which, frankly, should’ve earned him a medal.
I took another drink and leaned my head back.
Was there a possibility—however slim—that Miles didn’t totally despise me?
No. Impossible.
…Okay, maybe not impossible.
I reached for the remote and flicked on the TV, but nothing held my attention. Cooking shows made me hungry. News segments made me anxious. And real estate shows made me feel like I should have invested in land instead of liver damage.
Eventually, I gave up and stared at the ceiling.
“Fuck, I’m bored,” I groaned. “I should start a podcast. Or a cult.”
The mezcal was warming me nicely now. I was almost content—if I ignored the fact that I had stitches, mild domestic delirium, and was starting to wonder what Miles was doing. Probably color-coding his pantry or doing yoga in a cashmere robe.
And yet… I kind of wanted to see him again.
Ugh.
I swirled my glass and gave myself a look. “Get a grip, Hudson. You’re not catching feelings. You’re catching cabin fever.”
Still, the image of him—shirtless, annoyingly calm, holding gauze like a war medic—lingered in my mind like a hangover I didn’t want to shake.
