Hudson
It was official. I had hit rock bottom—on a beach, no less.
There I was, shirtless, sandy, and humiliated with a foot that looked like a horror film prop, being tended to by Rehoboth Beach’s very own Marie Kondo with a tan.
Miles fucking Whitaker.
Of all the people to play nursemaid to my bleeding ass, it had to be the man who probably ironed his beach towels.
And yet, here he was—his hands surprisingly steady, precise, and annoyingly gentle—pressing his clean shirt to my foot like he was prepping me for surgery instead of just getting me to stop bleeding all over the beach like a stabbed tomato.
Fucking classic.
He helped me up, and I hissed like a vampire in daylight. My entire foot was pulsing with agony, but the worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the embarrassment.
I’d gone from cocky beach slut to beachside casualty in under ten minutes.
We shuffled to his SUV like the weirdest couple in a Hallmark movie: him, poised and pristine, and me, limping and covered in a fine layer of beach shame.
Miles’ SUV was as perfect as the man himself. Clean. Leather interior. That faint lemon-verbena scent that screamed “I have a linen closet labeled by season.”
He helped me into the passenger seat without a word, then disappeared into his house for a minute. He soon emerged, wearing literally the exact same linen shirt he’d had on at the beach—except this one was cleaner, without my DNA all over it.
Of course, he had multiple sets of the exact same shirts.
It did make me wonder how he organized them. Were there small, microscopic nuances that allowed him to color-code or alphabetize each one in his closet? Or perhaps he arranged them by slight discrepancies in fabric composition—98% linen and 2% polyester versus 99% linen and 1% polyester?
Hell, who was I kidding? I knew damn well polyester didn’t exist in Miles’ vernacular. His garments were all 100% linen. Duh. We’re talking about Alphabet Boy here.
Miles opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. The AC kicked in with a soft hum, cooling the flush from my cheeks—which was more from mortification than heat.
The silence between us stretched like taffy.
I fiddled with the bandage, wincing.
“You know, this is weirdly intimate.”
Miles didn’t even glance at me.
“You bleeding on my seats would be weirdly infuriating.”
“Touché.”
We drove on. No music. No banter. Just the occasional turn signal clicking and my own internal monologue screaming: What the hell, . What the hell.
I peeked at him from the corner of my eye. He was all sharp cheekbones and quiet resolve, eyes on the road like he was trying not to think about the fact that a half-naked disaster was bleeding in his car.
“I really am sorry,”
I said finally.
“For the drama.”
He didn’t respond right away. But eventually, he sighed and muttered, “Just don’t make a habit of it.”
And somehow, that was the kindest thing anyone had said to me in weeks.
The silence in the car had begun to calcify, thick and suffocating like a too-tight cashmere scarf from an ex who still sends you passive-aggressive Christmas cards. Miles kept his eyes laser-focused on the road, knuckles pale against the steering wheel, his jaw tight enough to crack diamonds.
Meanwhile, I sat there bleeding and brooding, the hum of the air conditioning filling the space between us like a chaperone who hated fun.
Fucking screw it.
I cleared my throat and turned slightly toward him.
“I’m sure I’m the last person you wanted to help out today.”
His grip on the steering wheel didn’t loosen. He gave a little snort—barely audible over the low whirr of the tires on Coastal Highway.
“You’re not wrong.”
I smirked, wincing slightly as I shifted in the seat.
“Still, gotta admit, you’re doing a pretty stellar job playing nurse, like a healing fairy godmother with control issues.”
“Don’t mistake competence for affection,”
he replied, voice like a chilled martini—smooth but with a bite.
“I just don’t like seeing someone bleed out in front of my monogrammed beach towel.”
“Ah, yes. The real tragedy here—the beach towel.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was something.
Progress.
I glanced around the car, taking in the unblemished dashboard, the subtle lemon scent, the tasteful little basket of hand sanitizer, and the individually wrapped mints in the cup holder.
Of course he had mints.
Miles probably vacuumed his car with a lint roller.
“So,”
I said, trying to sound casual but probably coming off as just annoying.
“Do you always carry a first-aid kit around? Or do you just expect the beach to regularly erupt in bloodshed?”
“I’m prepared,”
he said simply.
“That’s what adults do.”
“Harsh. I’m an adult, too. I just prefer my emergencies spontaneous and my plans nonexistent.”
“That explains a lot.”
I chuckled. The throbbing in my foot was making me woozy, but it was kind of nice to have someone to spar with. Miles was like a grumpy puzzle box wrapped in Angora and judgment.
“So, what’s your deal, Alphabet Boy?”
I asked.
“You always this tightly wound? Or is it just when you’re rescuing barefoot idiots from bleeding out on your beach day?”
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“Come on. We’re in a car. Trapped. No one’s around to judge you for being mildly human.”
He didn’t look at me, but after a moment, he said, “I run a lifestyle brand. I curate content, home organization, wellness, and food. That sort of thing.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah. I know. You’re like the gay Martha Stewart.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Well, you definitely have better cheekbones.”
He didn’t respond, but I could feel the temperature in the car shift ever so slightly. Like the ice wall he’d built between us had a tiny fissure forming.
“What about you?”
he asked after a beat.
“Besides injuring yourself and leaving trails of chaos in your wake.”
“Actor,”
I said.
“Mostly action movies. Some cult classics. Some trash. Oh, I once did a cameo on a cooking show and burned rice on camera. The internet had a field day.”
“Sounds about right,”
he quickly came back with.
“Hey, I’ve got range. I can cry on cue and mix a killer margarita.”
“Let me guess—you live in LA?”
“God, no. Miami. At least for the most part. I only go to LA for gigs when I need to.”
He nodded, clearly unimpressed.
“What about you? Is Rehoboth full time for you or do are you just summering like a WASP in heat?” I asked.
He stiffened slightly.
“Moved here recently full time. My actual house is just ten minutes away. But I needed a change of scene, which is why I’m staying in the house next to yours this weekend.”
There was something evasive in his tone, a subtle dodge I recognized because I’d used it a thousand times myself.
“Why a change of scene? Is it divorce? A breakup? Midlife crisis?”
His eyes flicked toward me briefly.
“That’s none of your business.”
I raised my hands in mock surrender.
“Okay, okay. Boundaries. Respect. All that jazz.”
He stayed silent for a few beats before adding, “Let’s just say I don’t feel like getting personal with someone who still thinks tank tops count as formal wear.”
“Ouch. That was designer. Vintage Alexander McQueen.”
“I rest my case,”
he quipped.
I roared again, louder this time. Despite his best efforts, Miles Whitaker was… warming. Not much. But enough.
“You know,”
I said, turning my body just a little more toward him despite the pain.
“You keep calling me a disaster, but you’re the one voluntarily driving me to the hospital instead of letting me get scooped up by some sunburned EMT who thinks antiseptic is a personality. So, either you’re a closet masochist, or you don’t hate me as much as you pretend.”
His mouth tightened.
“Let’s not confuse basic human decency with liking someone.”
“Too late,”
I said with a wink.
“I’m already picturing us in matching hospital gowns.”
He rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might sprain.
Still, for all the sarcasm and eye rolls, he didn’t kick me out of the SUV. And in my book? That was practically a fucking love letter.
We rode the rest of the way in silence, but it wasn’t quite the same. The tension had shifted. Less ice storm, more awkward truce. I leaned my head against the window and let the sound of the tires lull me into a haze, trying not to think too hard about the weird little ache in my chest that had nothing to do with my foot.
Maybe—just maybe—this summer wasn’t going to be a total disaster after all.
Or it would. And at least I’d bleed dramatically doing it.
We pulled into Beebe Hospital about ten minutes after our weird-ass ceasefire was born in the front seat of Miles Whitaker’s luxury SUV. The kind of hospital that looked like it hosted way too many charity galas, all beige walls, with calming abstract art that screamed, “we’re trying very hard to make you forget someone probably died here yesterday.”
Miles parked in a designated visitor spot—of course, he did—and helped me hobble toward the entrance like I was his reluctant prom date. I was still shirtless, mind you. Sand glued to my back, blood crusted around the makeshift dressing on my foot, and the faint scent of seaweed doing me no favors.
We approached the check-in desk. The receptionist gave us a once-over, eyes lingering just long enough on the blood to widen.
“Emergency?”
she asked.
“What gave it away?”
I replied.
Miles shot me a warning look.
“He stepped on something sharp at the beach,”
Miles said, all business.
“He’s still bleeding, and I think he needs stitches.”
“Name?”
“ Knight.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
Ah, recognition. Great.
I could already see the tabloid headline: Washed-Up Actor Bleeds on Coastal Hospital Reception Desk.
She handed me a clipboard and a pen.
“Fill this out. Insurance info on the second page. We’ll call you back as soon as we can.”
I took the clipboard, muttering a thanks that sounded more like a growl, and gimped over to the waiting area. Miles followed and sat two seats away because, of course, he needed personal space like he needed air.
The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and low-grade anxiety. A toddler wailed somewhere in the back. A man in scrubs walked by, sipping iced coffee with a straw that squeaked every time he sucked.
“So,”
I said, glancing at Miles while scribbling half-legible information onto the form.
“You do this often? Take in stray celebrities with bleeding feet?”
“Only on Tuesdays,”
he said flatly.
“I decided to make an exception today.”
I chuckled and winced. The throbbing in my foot was back with a vengeance.
“Damn, this hurts. Can I put you down as my emergency contact?”
He turned to me with a look that could have killed houseplants.
“Absolutely not.”
“Worth a shot.”
The silence settled again, not quite hostile now, just thick with unasked questions.
“Hey,”
I said, lowering my voice.
“Thanks. For all this. Seriously. I know I’m… a lot. But you didn’t have to help.”
Miles looked at me for a moment, then sighed.
“I wasn’t about to let someone bleed out in front of me. Even if that someone is you.”
“You say that like I’m a global catastrophe,”
I remarked.
“You said it, not me.”
Soon, a nurse called my name. I stood or tried to and nearly face-planted.
“Alright,”
Miles said, springing to action.
“Come on, hop along.”
He helped me over to the nurse, who led us down a hallway to an exam room. Miles stayed in the waiting area, probably disinfecting his entire soul with mental Clorox.
A doctor came in—Dr. Moretti, calm eyes, steady hands, and zero interest in my filmography. She examined my foot and nodded.
“You’re going to need about seven stitches. The laceration is clean but deep. We’ll numb it, stitch it, bandage it, and send you home with crutches and instructions.”
“Will I live?”
She smiled.
“If you stay off it. No sand, no beach, and try to keep pressure off of it for a week. Keep it clean and change the bandage daily. Come back in ten days and we’ll remove the stitches.”
“So basically, no fun.” I sighed.
“Precisely.”
The numbing shot hurt more than the injury, but I gritted my teeth like a champ. Twenty minutes later, stitched and bandaged, I staggered out on crutches with a paper bag of gauze, instructions, and a bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen.
Miles was standing when I returned.
“They said you’re good to go?” he asked.
“As good as a one-legged beach bum can be. Want to carry me over the threshold like a groom?”
He rolled his eyes but took the paper bag and headed toward the exit.
“You’re really committed to this whole reluctant knight-in-shining-Lululemon role, huh?”
“You live next door,”
he muttered.
“It’s on my way.”
“Touching. Truly.”
The drive back was less awkward this time. I fiddled with the air conditioning, Miles didn’t yell at me, and I even caught him glancing over once, probably to make sure I hadn’t passed out from blood loss or cracked open a Gatorade in his leather interior.
We pulled into the driveway. My house—a modern beast of questionable taste and even more dubious house guests—loomed beside his polished blue-shingled beach home he was renting, like an overcompensating frat bro next to a boutique spa.
He got out and came around to help me. I leaned on the crutches and winced.
“Thanks again,”
I said, quieter this time.
“For real. I owe you.”
He hesitated, then gave a half-shrug.
“Try not to bleed in the neighborhood again. Wouldn’t want to lower the property values.”
And with that, he turned and walked back to his house, not looking back once.
I hobbled to my front steps, paused, and looked at his retreating figure.
Great. Now, I owed a lifestyle guru a favor.
Just fucking great.