Page 70 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I rolled my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,” he said easily. “But seriously—this is the least I can do for the man who saved my life, or at least my foot, and then made me breakfast like some bougie domestic gay icon. Actually, there is nolike. You really are a bougie domestic gay icon. Duh.”
“Please,” I muttered. “You’re being dramatic. It was a minor foot injury and a very basic breakfast.”
Hudson tilted his head, chewing thoughtfully. “Maybe, but you didn’t have to help me. You could’ve let me stumble home and bleed out dramatically on the deck like a wounded seagull.”
“You would’ve deserved it,” I deadpanned.
He raised his glass in a toast. “To deserving seagulls.”
I clinked mine against his, chuckling despite myself. The wind picked up gently, rustling my shirt. I glanced out at the water again—the gentle slosh of the waves against the hull, the cries of distant gulls, the sparkle of the sun dancing on the surface. It was perfect. Almost suspiciouslyperfect.
“This is so beautiful,” I said softly. “I love Rehoboth Beach.”
Hudson nodded, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah. I guess the subtle charm is starting to grow on me a bit.”
I looked at him over the rim of my champagne glass. “You guess?”
He laughed, his teeth gleaming. “Okay, fine. When I was told to lie low in a beach town—and of course, I insisted it be a gay one—I had my sights set on Fire Island or Provincetown. You know, the classics. Thongs, drag queens on tricycles, orgies in the dunes… the usual.”
My eyes widened. “Oh, lord.”
“But then,” he continued, unfazed, “my agent-slash-publicist-slash-professional babysitter said I needed somewhere quieter. Calmer. A ‘gentler rehab for your reputation,’ she said. She mentioned Rehoboth Beach, and I was like, what the hell is a Rehoboth? Sounds like a biblical city. But she booked it, and I arrived. And you know what? She was right. It’s… less pressure here. Less cameras. Less screaming fans. Less expectations.”
I nodded slowly. “That’s exactly why I love it here. It’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also…manageable. Not trying to be anything it’s not.”
He looked at me then—not through me, not past me—but directly at me. There was something disarming about his gaze, even with the sunglasses still on. “Manageable’s nice, huh?”
“It really is,” I confirmed.
We sat in silence for a moment, letting the wind and water carry the conversation. The boat coasted along like it had no destination and all the time in the world to get there. I reached for a fig, suddenly aware of how rare this was—peace, spontaneity, an afternoon with no plan and no looming expectation to perform.
Hudson grinned again, that irreverent glimmer in his eye. “So… still think I’m just a drunk gremlin from a noise complaint?”
I smirked. “Well, the jury’s still out.”
“Fair,” he said and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “But let the record show: this gremlin charters a damn fine boat.”
I raised my glass once more. “I’ll drink to that.”
The yacht continued gliding past the inlet homes, their reflections rippling gently across the bay. I caught myself watching Hudson—not just the sharp jawline or the tousled hair that danced in the wind like it had a fan crew—but the way he was surprisingly present. Not on his phone, not posturing. Just…here.
I didn’t know what this was or what it might become.
But for now, here was enough.
We didn’t need to say much as the boat continued along the bay. It was one of those silences that didn’t feel empty—it felt earned. The kind of quiet that draped itself over two people like a soft blanket, warm and intimate. The yacht cut along Rehoboth Bay with the same quiet confidence Hudson often exuded, sending gentle ripples trailing behind us like satin ribbons on water.
I shifted in my seat and gestured toward the long, cushioned sofa behind us. “Want to move back there?” I asked, motioning with my glass.
Hudson smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Was wondering when you’d invite me to sit closer.”
I rolled my eyes, hiding the flush of heat that bloomed beneath my cheekbones. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just want a better view of the water.”
“Mm-hmm.” He stood, grabbing the champagne bottle from the bucket with exaggerated flair, and followed me to the rear lounge seating. The sofa wrapped around the back half of the flybridge in a soft U-shape—plush, white, and the kind of luxurious that dared you to spill something on it.
I eased into the cushions, folding one leg underneath me. Hudson poured us both another glass of champagne with a flourish, like a maître d’ at a five-star Parisian brunch. He handed me mine, then sat beside me—close, but not suffocatingly so. Just enough to feel his presence. Just enough to notice the scent of sea salt and cologne on the breeze between us.
