Page 92 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Cecilia recovered faster. “Darling, you really don’t have to cook tonight. We can go out, or I can make something simple—”
“No, no. I want to.” He turned, still unreadable, and gave us both a polite smile. “I think we’ve all had quite the day. A nice dinner might help reset the energy.”
Reset the energy? Whowasthis man?
Was this Miles 2.0? Post-scandal Miles? Divorce-Denial-Dinner-Party Miles?
“Uh…” I glanced at Cecilia, hoping she could help me make sense of all this.
“You sure you don’t want help, darling?” she asked.
He shook his head and began arranging ingredients like a surgeon prepping for a heart transplant. Fresh bay leaves, lemons, a white ceramic ramekin of garlic confit. A fennel bulb appeared out of nowhere. A fish was being defrosted in the sink like it had been waiting for this exact dramatic entrance.
“I’d actuallyprefer the kitchen to myself right now,” Miles said, voice clipped but polite. “Not in a rude way. I just need… the space.”
His eyes flicked up briefly, landing on me. Not cold. Not warm. Just…deliberate.
Cecilia, to her credit, didn’t argue. She placed her napkin down like she was leaving a country club brunch. “Of course, sweetheart. We’ll just step out onto the deck and give you a bit of room.”
“Thank you,” Miles said, already turning to dice herbs like he was in a Michelin-star audition.
I stood there for a second too long, unsure if I should say something. Apologize again? Offer a hug? Ask if he’d been possessed by the ghost of a 1950s hostess?
But then Miles turned his back to us and began whisking something with terrifying precision. The conversation was over.
Cecilia grabbed a bottle of white wine from the chiller before gently tugging my sleeve. “Come, Hudson. Let’s give the man his stage.”
As I followed her toward the glass doors leading outside to the deck, I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder one more time.
Miles, bathed in the golden wash of the pendant lights, was utterly in his element—cool, composed, a vision of curated domestic calm.
But even from this angle, I could tell.
His hands were shaking.
I didn’t even get a chance to argue. One second, I was standing in front of the kitchen island like a confused labradoodle who accidentally wandered into a gourmet cooking show, and the next—Cecilia had her hand on my back, nudging me toward the sliding doors like she was shooing me out of a salon for dripping sand on the marble floors.
“Come on,” she whispered, like we were escaping a nuclear test zone. “He’s gone intoOrganization and Cooking Frenzy Mode. Best not to be anywhere near the impact zone.”
I furrowed my brow. “Is that… like a medical thing?”
She laughed, a soft, champagne-tinged chuckle, as she pulled the glass door open with her manicured hand and gestured dramatically toward the upper deck like I was being exiled from Eden. “It’s very much aMilesthing. You’ll learn. Or be steamrolled.”
I gave one last glance back at Miles—now elbow-deep in asparagus spears, plating herbs like they were rare butterfly specimens. He had a thin kitchen towel tucked into his waistband like a chef in a French rom-com and the most intense look on his face. Not angry. Not sad. Just…possessed. Like Ina Garten had invited Satan into her soul and decided to host a deathmatch dinner party.
The moment we hit the upper deck, the salty air slapped me like it was trying to knock some sense into me. The wind tugged gently at Cecilia’s caftan, which she changed to be ivory this evening, with a golden peacock motif that shimmered whenever she turned.
She slid into one of the deck chairs with practiced elegance and sighed as she poured herself another glass of white wine from the bottle, before placing it in an ice bucket by her side.
“Organization and Cooking Frenzy Mode?” I asked, plopping down beside her and kicking my feet up on the ottoman like I owned the damn place.
Cecilia swirled her wine and smirked. “Oh, yes. It’s like a nesting ritual. When things feel too out of control, Miles has this…switch. He cooks, organizes, and wipes down surfaces that already sparkle. It’s not just about food—it’s how he restores order to the universe. You could tell him the Pope was on fire, and he’d respond by marinating a pork loin.”
I blinked. “That’s either deeply unsettling or the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Cecilia raised her glass. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear you call my sonsexy. But I understand the sentiment. Cheers, to order restored.”
We clinked glasses—me with a vodka soda I had grabbed en route to the deck from the mini-fridge because I’m classy like that—and stared out at the ocean like a couple of war generals watching the battlefield from a balcony.
