Page 57 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Topper stirred from the foot of the bed, thumping his tail in sleepy approval as I finally peeled back the covers. My joints groaned slightly as I sat up. God, even my body was disappointed in me. I didn’t need a hangover—my internal disappointment was punishment enough.
I had intended to stop at two martinis last night. Maybe even just one, originally. But when Hudson Knight parked himself beside me, all smug grins and wounded charm, something in me buckled. Each word from his mouth was like a small, calculated shove against my composure. He was grating. Annoying. Cocky. And strangely magnetic.
So, I had another martini.
And then one more after that.
And now here I was—forty minutes late to my routine, my energy completely off, my rhythm thrown out of sync like a record needle skipping over a groove. I didn’t even want to check my to-do list. It would mock me.
Still, I had to recalibrate somehow. If I didn’t reclaimthis morning, the whole day would unravel like a cheap spool of thread.
I padded down the hallway barefoot, cool floorboards tapping against my soles. The house was quiet in that sacred, pre-coffee silence. The only sound was the distant, lazy hum of the waves rolling against the shore. I stepped out to the back patio, Topper following behind me like a little soldier, and breathed in the morning air.
Salt. Ocean. A trace of something floral from the fully blossomed hydrangeas.
I needed to run. I needed to move. To sweat. To reset.
I changed into my running clothes—a crisp pair of navy blue shorts, a soft heather-gray tee that clung a little too well, and my favorite pair of Hoka sneakers that practically whispered “Type A” with every step. I stretched on the deck for precisely five minutes, even though I usually stretched for ten. But time was short now. Everything was shortened.
At 7:30 AM, I finally hit Ocean Drive, earbuds tucked in, a carefully arranged playlist humming something ambient and wordless. I didn’t want lyrics. I had too many words in my head already.
My legs moved with mechanical precision at first, guided more by muscle memory than energy. Each stride, each breath, was a protest against the sluggishness I carried like an unwanted guest. I hated feeling like this—out of sync and behind schedule.
The morning was already well underway. Couples in matching fleece were walking their dogs, early risers were nursing paper cups of coffee while sitting on benches, and the beach cleanup crews were already doing their slow crawl down the shoreline with rakes and buckets.
As my feet pounded the familiar trail of Gordon’s Pond in Cape Henlopen State Park, my mind wandered—against my will—back to last night.
The piano. The martinis. The dim lights and Billie Holiday standards.
And Hudson.
That kiss.
What had he been thinking? Was it the vodka that moved him or something else? Did he feel something? Did I?
I could still feel the phantom trace of his lips—warm, unhurried, surprisingly soft. The kind of kiss that wasn’t calculated or performative. The kind that didn’t ask for anything in return.
And it had startled me.
I’d pulled away. I’d told myself it was too soon, and maybe it was. But the smirk on my face right now—yes, I was aware of it—suggested that perhaps, justperhaps, I didn’t mind it as much as I pretended.
The wind kicked up slightly as I looped around the pond and turned back toward Ocean Drive, the sun now brighter, the town coming to life.
I tried—truly tried—to clear my mind.
But Hudson had a way of sticking around. Not just in person, loud and flashy as he was—but in thought. In memory. In smirks and kisses and the glint of a martini glass catching candlelight.
I had come to Rehoboth to reset, to reflect, toretreat—not to flirt with fame or stumble into complications in tight jeans and aviators. And yet, here I was. Disoriented. Forty minutes late. And smiling like an idiot on mile two.
It kills me to admit—but kissing Hudson wasn’t entirely awful.
I returned from my run slightly more flushed than usual, sweat clinging to my temple as I opened the fridge and reached for the carafe of iced coffee I’d brewed yesterday. Cold. Strong. Just the way I liked it. I filled a glass, added a splash of oat milk, and gave it a gentle swirl before padding barefoot toward the upper deck with Topper trailing me, nails clicking on the hardwood like a tiny metronome.
The morning sun had only just crested abovethe dunes, casting the deck in soft gold. The breeze from the ocean still held that hint of crispness, the kind that would be burned off by midmorning but felt, for now, refreshing. I set my coffee down on the teak side table and unfolded the throw blanket I kept draped over the wicker lounge chair. Old habits. Even in summer, I couldn’t resist layering.
I settled in with my tablet, brushing a lock of damp hair from my forehead and tapping open the news—just the headlines today. I didn’t have the stomach for a full doom scroll. After a few swipes, I moved on to my social media dashboard. A little self-indulgent, yes, but I told myself it was forbrand upkeep.
There it was: my carousel post from yesterday titledRehoboth Retreat Day 2.
