Page 59 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Come over in about an hour. Gives me time to prepare.
Instantly, he replied.
@HudsonKnight_Official:
Sounds good. See you soon.
My iced coffee suddenly didn’t feel strong enough. I stood up with a jolt, nearly knocking over the side table, and rushed inside. Topper trotted after me, confused by the sudden burst of energy.
I had exactly sixty minutes.
First, the shower. Then, the table.
I already had the menu in my head—a mentalmise en placeI’d rehearsed in case I ever had to serve an unexpected breakfast to a celebrity guest who kissed me on the beach after three martinis.
French omelets. Light and silky. Just eggs, cream, butter, and technique. Herbed potatoes—crispy, browned, with fresh rosemary and thyme. Crisp prosciutto in place of bacon. Fruit salad with lime zest and mint. Mini croissants, warmed. And, of course, mimosas. Classic and blood orange. With a chilled bottle of Brut, I had been saving for… something.
I flungopen the linen drawer.
Ironed napkins?Check.
Pale blue ceramic plates?Check.
My best glassware for the mimosas?Double check.
The man had over two million followers and had likely eaten breakfast with royalty. But he hadn’t eaten breakfasthere, withmeas the host.
I smirked to myself, sleeves rolled up, heart racing in a way that was less anxiety and more… anticipation.
“Let’s knock his socks off, Miles,” I muttered aloud as I lined the mimosa glasses on a tray.
Topper sneezedin agreement.
Hudson
I don’t usually wake up early unless it’s for a court appearance, a bad decision, or someone truly worth shaving my chest for. But today, for reasons my hungover brain couldn’t fully comprehend, I was up and buzzing—well, buzzing in the way a former party animal limps toward dignity with a stitched foot and a leftover boner for emotional vulnerability.
I took a long shower and ran a loofah over my body. Then I towel-dried and picked out an outfit as if I were auditioning forBrunch: The Musical. I landed on white linen drawstring pants that whispered “trust fund yoga cult,” a sage green button-down I left carelessly open at the top, and the kind of espadrilles that only look good if you’ve slept with a fashion editor. I looked breezy, expensive, and just beachy enough to seem like I didn’t care—while, of course, caringdeeply.
Hair? Tousled.
Cologne? A spritz of Tom Ford Neroli Portofino because I’m a slut for citrus.
Sunglasses? Tortoiseshell Persols. I looked like the kind of man who was either about to sip a mimosa or destroy a marriage.Hopefully both.Although, scratch the second part. That’s already been taken care of.
I hobbled next door to the ocean-blue beach house, AKA Miles’ perfectly structured coastal temple of aesthetic oppression. It looked like the kind of place that would call the HOA on you for drying a beach towel wrong. I knocked twice—brisk, charming, confident. The door creaked open, and—
“Oh. Hudson,” said the voice of a goddess—or at least the voice of a woman whothoughtshe was. Standing before me was Cecilia, Miles’ mother, in a flowing greencaftan that swirled like a peacock having a religious experience. She held a crystal champagne flute like it was a goddamn scepter, her hair coiffed into its own majestic climate system.
“Well, if it isn’t the scandal of the season,” she said with a smirk, tilting her head as if inspecting me for smudges. “I do love it when someone attractive shows up before noon.”
I grinned. “You’re a vision, Cecilia. You look like you’re about to hold court and then sue a man for disappointing you in bed.”
“Oh, darling,” she said, stepping aside and waving me in. “I’d never waste the legal fees. Come in.”
Inside, the house smelled like roasted garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, and fresh herbs. It waspornographic. If Anthropologie opened a Michelin-starred restaurant, it would smell like this.
Miles was moving around the kitchen like a man who’d slept for four hours and hadstandards. He was in a crisp white apron over a pale blue shirt, his hair slightly tousled from the morning, his face focused, flushed. He didn’t notice me at first—he was torching something that smelled like heaven’s butthole. A tomato confit, or perhaps a rich frittata, was simmering on the stove.
