Page 72 of The Rehoboth Retreat
This was the culinary equivalent of tossing out the measuring cups, adding a splash of frenzy, and stirring with a reckless kind of glee. And damn if it didn’t taste like freedom.
I’d finally improvised.
And the result?
It wasn’t just edible—it was unforgettable.
Hudson
I’ll admit it—I was feeling myself.
Not in the “take a selfie with my shirt off and post it with a pseudo-deep caption about resilience” kind of way (though let’s be real, I’ve done that), but in the genuine, oh-my-god-I-just-had-a-real-human-experience kind of way. It was disgusting. Like, emotional intimacy? On a boat? Who the hell was I becoming?
The yacht eased back into the dock at Rehoboth Bay Marina like it had just completed a luxury commercial for rosé and serotonin. I stood from the cushioned flybridge seat, still buzzed on champagne and whatever chemical reaction happens in your bloodstream after someone like Miles Whitaker makes out with you like you’re the last damn man on Earth.
Miles was smiling softly beside me, cheeks flushed, lips still slightly pink from where I’d tasted him. His posture screamed post-kiss confusion—he was still composing himself, dusting off that perfectly curated exterior like he couldn’t believe he’d just kissed someone spontaneously. I wanted to bottle that moment and drink it straight like scotch.
The captain gave us a curt nod as we descended the gangplank.
“Thanks for everything, Captain Leo,” I said, tossing him a folded tip that could pay for a semester of college in some countries. “You were smoother than the guy driving my getaway car in Nice.”
Captain Leo smirked, clearly used to this level of eccentric bullshit. “Glad you enjoyed it, Mr. Knight.”
“I’m not dead, so yeah, successful voyage,” I replied, already sliding my sunglasses back on like a hungover Bond villain.
Three staffers—chefs or chefs’ hot cousins, I don’t know—exited the galley behind us, carrying trays and linens. One of them winked at me. Miles didn’t notice, thankfully. Not that I was interested—no one else had that goddamn coastal-organizer-in-Loro-Piana energy like Miles did—but I was trying not to look like a slutfor once. Growth.
We stepped off the dock, my loafers clicking on the wooden planks, and made our way toward my convertible parked under the shaded lot, still gleaming like the obnoxiously rich person’s toy that it was. Miles fell into step beside me, and for once, he didn’t look like he was trying to keep six inches of emotional buffer space between us. We walked shoulder to shoulder. I could smell the salt on his skin.
Still no words. Just that warm, post-kiss silence. The kind that hums instead of hollers. I wasn’t going to ruin it with my usual verbal diarrhea. Not yet.
I opened the passenger door for him—don’t get used to it—and he slipped in with a quiet, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I said, closing the door with a dramatic flourish.
I slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and peeled out of the lot with just enough tire screech to remind people I wasn’tentirelydomesticated. The top was down, of course. Miles’ hair whipped lightly in the wind, his eyes hidden behind tortoise-shell shades. My arm rested on the steering wheel like I’d been born for this—rich guy rides down Coastal Highway with a handsome man and a secret smile.
We didn’t talk much on the way back to Ocean Drive. Didn’t have to. He kept stealing glances at me when he thought I wouldn’t notice, and I kept pretending I wasn’t clocking every single damn one of them.
The radio was low, playing something soft and vaguely jazzy, which made me feel like I was driving him home from prom in a Wes Anderson version ofCall Me By Your Name. I should’ve been smug. I should’ve made a joke. But truth be told, I was just content. Like, dangerously content. That’s not normal for me.
My mind wandered as we hit the quiet neighborhoods, edging back toward the shore. Was that a date? Did we just go on a fucking date? It had the hallmarks: surprise plans, gourmet food, champagne, a passionate kiss with tongue, and implied feelings. I mean, yeah—I’ve had stranger dates in Miami that ended with less clothing and more litigation, but this…thisfelt different.
I pulled up to his house—the perfect blue-and-beige stunner with hydrangeas probably hand-massaged by angels—and put the car in park. The engine purred, then quieted. We sat there for a second.
Miles turned to me, hesitant. “Thank you again. That was…”
“I know,” I said, cutting him off. “I’m insufferably charming.”
He laughed genuinely and reached for the door handle—but paused. “You know,” he said, glancing down at his phone, “I don’t actually have your number.”
“Oh, are we done DMing like middle schoolers?” I teased.
He handed me his phone. I typed in my number, complete with a skull emoji at the end, because God forbid I do anything mature. Then I pinged myself a text from it so I could have his, too.
“There,” I said, handing it back. “Now you can call me next time you want to kiss someone erratic in designer sunglasses.”
“Tempting,” he replied, cheek twitching in that way that meant he was trying not to smile too wide.
