Page 74 of The Rehoboth Retreat
He paused at the foot of the porch steps, glancing over his shoulder.
“That kiss,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets like an idiot. “It was even better than the caviar.”
His cheeks flushed—rosy pink blooming like a watercolor. He looked down shyly and shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” I said, grinning. “But you like me that way.”
He didn’t deny it. He just turned back toward the door and waved once before slipping inside.
I stood there for a beat, staring at the closed door like a moron.
Alphabet Boy was finally learning.
I climbed back into the convertible, still tasting salt and sunlight on my lips, and started the engine. As I pulled away from the curb, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. I didn’t look like Hudson Knight, the tabloid mess. I didn’t look like a guy recovering from a PR hurricane.
I looked like someone who had something to look forward to.
And dinner at seven with Miles Whitaker? Yeah, that suddenly sounded better than any rager I could’ve thrown.
Miles
I walked into the beach house with the kind of dazed, lovesick expression typically reserved for romance movie heroines who just got kissed under a fireworks display. Except there had been no fireworks—just salt air, champagne, and Hudson Knight’s lips on mine.
Close enough.
My hand lingered on the doorknob longer than it needed to, and I caught my reflection in the small mirror by the entryway. My cheeks were flushed, my collar slightly crooked, and my hair had been tousled by the wind. I looked like I’d stepped out of a coastal daydream.
Was that a date?
I mean, yacht… caviar… a kiss on the water… It surefeltlike one. And yet, something in me still couldn’t quite accept that as reality. Not yet.
As I stepped into the cool, polished interior of the beach house, I heard the soft creak of the stairs. I turned and saw my mother, Cecilia, descending in one of her floaty, watercolor caftans—this one a deep sapphire that caught the afternoon light.
“Well,” she said with a knowing arch of her brow. “You’re glowing like you’ve just been lightly ravished by a Hemsworth brother.”
I laughed, half embarrassed, half amused. “It wasn’tquitethat.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hummed. “Was it the Rehoboth librarian or that celebrity degenerate you’ve been circling like a worried dove?”
I rolled my eyes. “Do you want the short version or the drink-poured, feet-in-the-sand, mother-son moment version?”
She turned on her heel toward the kitchen. “Surely the latter, darling. You set up the chairs. I’ll make the martinis.”
Ten minutes later, we were barefoot in the sand behind the house, two weathered Adirondack chairs angled toward the bay, a little teak side table between us balancing our frosty glasses. The breeze was gentle, the sunlight golden, and Topper snoozed in a small patch of shade beside my chair, the very picture of retirement bliss, at least that was the actual case for half of us.
Cecilia sipped her martini and cocked her head toward me. “Well? Spill it, darling. You’re practically on the verge of combusting.”
I took a breath. “Okay. So, Hudson picked me up—top down in some absurdly expensive convertible, of course—and wouldn’t tell me where we were going. Total surprise. We pull into Rehoboth Bay Marina, and then—Mom—there’s this massive, gleaming yacht with a captain and chefs. I didn’t even know we had boats like thathere.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Chefs? Plural?”
“Three. I counted. There were charcuterie boards and this amazing spread waiting at a table on the flybridge. Champagne in an ice bucket. Caviar, too, although he insisted there’d be ‘no caviar bumps,’ whatever that means.”
She let out a delicate wheeze of laughter. “Oh, I don’t think you’re ready for that particular brand of party trick, dear. A little messy for your taste.”
“I don’t want to be,” I muttered, sipping my martini. “Anyway, it was beautiful. The boat coasted along the bay. We talked… flirted a little. And then—he kissed me. Well, I kissed him, actually. I mean, we both kissed each other.”
I looked out toward the water, the memory blooming across my skin again like heat from the sun. “It was soft. Real. Not like some drunken dare or performance,” I elaborated.
