Hudson
I knew he looked familiar.
That face—the impossibly smooth skin, those just-so cheekbones, the high-end linen shirt pressed within an inch of its goddamn life. It screamed curated. Like he’d been birthed by a Pinterest board and raised by a Crate & Barrel catalog.
Miles Whitaker. Of fucking course.
I’d seen his face on a few of those smug little social media reels—organizing a fridge with surgical precision or making a three-tiered blood orange panna cotta with organic mint garnish. Whatever. I recognized him, sure. But I wasn’t about to say that.
Nah. That would ruin the fun.
So, instead, I did what I do best: poked the bear. The uptight, pastel-wearing, sock-drawer-labeling bear. And holy hell, he snapped. I’d barely called him Alphabet Boy before he started spitting comebacks, like he’d been waiting his whole life to verbally spar with a hot mess like me.
He said I had a dumpster fire personality. I nearly choked on my own smugness. God, he was adorable in that I-would-absolutely-not-let-him-top-me kind of way.
But let’s be real. Outside this bar? That man was probably about as exciting as a wet sponge in a dry county. He probably vacuumed in straight lines and steamed his pillowcases.
Anyway, after thoroughly poking the control freak hive, I sauntered back to my table where eight guys—yes, eight—were waiting for me like I was the prize sow at a county fair.
“There he is!”
one of them—Tyler, maybe, or Trevor—cheered.
“What was that? You looked like you were about to throw down.”
“Just flirting,”
I said, sliding into my seat with a cocky grin.
“That was flirting?”
another asked, clutching his vodka soda like it had secrets.
“Same thing, babe. Same thing.”
We were loud, we were obnoxious, and we were parked right next to—who else—Mr. Napkin Fold himself.
I glanced over, and there he was, sipping his precious Chardonnay like it came with a background check. I swear, he even held the stem like it might develop fingerprints.
God, I needed a better nickname. Alphabet Boy was solid, but he deserved something… artisanal.
Mr. Napkin Fold. Yes. Because you know he has, like, twelve napkin fold techniques memorized. Fan. Bishop’s hat. Rosebud. Probably teaches master classes.
I took a swig from someone’s half-finished drink and let the sugar and vodka do their work.
Then I saw him—Mr. Napkin Fold—start to gather his things. Sweater folded just so. Phone tucked away like a Fabergé egg. Probably logging his wine intake on a wellness app.
“Hey!”
I called out.
“Past your bedtime?”
He paused, turned slightly, and raised his middle finger high like he was blessing me with it.
I howled. Loud enough to turn heads. Loud enough to make the Britney twink two-step off-beat.
“WOAH! Someone’s got claws! You gonna write that in your bullet journal, sweetheart?”
I cackled.
“Have fun, Mr. Napkin Fooooold!”
He didn’t even dignify me with another glance. Just swanned off like the elegant little tea towel ghost he was.
“Oh my god,”
said a guy beside me—Derek, maybe.
“You’re awful. I love it!”
“Public service,”
I said.
“He needed a little verbal exfoliation.”
Another shot appeared in front of me. I didn’t ask questions. I drank it as if it were holy water.
“You think he’ll talk about you on his blog?”
someone joked.
“God, I hope so. Maybe I’ll finally get verified.”
We roared. Laughter erupted like confetti.
One of them leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“You’re kinda dangerous, you know that?”
“And you’re kinda easy,”
I murmured, letting my hand trail briefly down his thigh.
The deck around us oscillated with life. The string lights above flickered like we were trapped inside an influencer’s mood board. Scents of coconut sunscreen, gin, and sweat mixed in the air. In the distance, someone tried to harmonize with Whitney Houston and failed miserably.
I glanced toward the street just in time to catch one last look at Miles. Even from the back, he looked annoyingly composed. Like he had a checklist for every facial expression.
He was probably going home to steam-clean his soul.
Me? I had a group of boys, a handful of bad decisions waiting in line, and a beach house bedroom with a mattress that squeaked like it had secrets.
One of them—Tristan? Austin?—winked.
“You taking anyone home tonight, Knight?”
“Baby,”
I said, raising my glass, “I’m taking everyone home tonight.”
The deck shook with cheers.
I might be a chaos gremlin, a walking headline, and a total trash panda… but tonight? I was Rehoboth Beach royalty. Pure damn royalty.
And the crown? It sparkled like spilled vodka on sunburned skin.
It’s called balance.