Miles
The sun had dipped low by the time I reached the porch, casting a lazy amber glow across the beach house’s cedar shakes. It should have felt like a relief—coming home after a detour to Beebe Hospital that most certainly hadn’t been on the day’s itinerary—but instead of that familiar serene exhale, I stood still, one foot on the mat, the other resting on the warm wooden planks of the front porch, suspended in thought.
Hudson Knight.
The name alone felt like a parody. A ridiculous, over-seasoned stage name you’d find plastered across a bottle of budget cologne or headlining a scandalous Las Vegas magic show. And yet, there he was: bloody, barefoot, belligerent—and somehow also vulnerable—in a way that caught me off guard.
I leaned against the porch column, letting the coastal breeze comb through my hair. My fingers absentmindedly brushed the hem of my shirt, still faintly wrinkled from our unexpected roadside adventure. I should have been annoyed. I should have come home ready to rant, decompress, and pour myself a stiff glass of wine. But I wasn’t angry. Not exactly. I was… off-kilter.
There were flashes of something in Hudson. Fleeting, subtle. Little glints of sincerity tucked between the bravado and profanity. The way he apologized—awkwardly, sure, but earnestly. Or how he went quiet during the ride, fidgeting not out of restlessness but, I suspected, embarrassment. Not that he’d admit that aloud.
I could still hear him, sprawled in the passenger seat like some half-dressed hurricane of bad decisions, muttering, “I’m sure I’m the last person you wanted to help out today.”
That rare trace of humility lingered longer than I liked.
He wasn’t just obnoxious. He was lonely. It hung on him like humidity in August—cloying, heavy, hard to ignore once you noticed it. And I had noticed it.
Damn it all.
I ran my hand along the smooth white railing, eyes trailing toward the path that led to the driveway, where the imprint of our tires still pressed faintly into the crushed shells and gravel. Hudson hadn’t even argued when I offered to drive him. Hadn’t made some joke about it or turned it into some sexual innuendo. He’d just nodded, murmured something close to gratitude, and limped into the car like he didn’t quite know how to ask for help.
That, more than anything, had stuck with me.
I shook my head slowly, jaw tightening. Maybe—just maybe—beneath the glitter and snark, there was something real buried in there in his shell of a heart. Not warmth, exactly. But something adjacent. Like a warm lump of coal wrapped in gold lamé and bad decisions. Potential energy, waiting to ignite.
It didn’t make him less exhausting. But it did make him… complicated.
And I hated complicated.
I took a slow breath, letting the salt air fill my lungs. My gaze lingered on the sea grass swaying gently in the wind, the horizon beyond it melting into dusky pinks and bruised blues. Somewhere, a gull cried. A dog barked faintly down the lane. But otherwise, it was quiet. Peaceful.
I should go inside. My mother would be wondering where I was. The diffuser was probably still running. Dinner still needed to be prepped. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to cross the threshold.
Instead, I stood rooted to the spot, arms crossed, staring off toward the far edge of the neighboring lot—the one Hudson Knight now occupied.
Of course, he bought the place next door. The universe had a perverse sense of humor.
I sighed.
This Rehoboth retreat was supposed to be about rest. Resetting. Recovery.
Instead, I had nursed a half-naked movie star with a bleeding foot and a penchant for debauchery. And somehow, I wasn’t even that mad about it.
God help me.
I adjusted my posture and glanced back at my own front door, still closed, waiting. But I lingered just a moment longer, watching the sky shift colors like a watercolor bleeding across paper.
Whatever this was—this strange, tense, mildly deranged connection—I had a feeling it wasn’t over yet.
And for reasons I couldn’t fully name… I wasn’t dreading it.
The moment I stepped through the front door, I felt the air-conditioning hit me like a blessing from the heavens. My skin was still warm and tight from the sun, my temples lightly pulsing with the kind of fatigue that came less from exertion and more from emotional whiplash. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a breath, as if the house itself might absorb some of the psychic residue left behind from Hudson Knight’s unexpected spiral into my afternoon.
So much for a tranquil beach day.
But I had barely exhaled before a familiar voice pierced the silence, a melody of mock surprise and glee.
“Well, well, well—if it isn’t Rehoboth’s own Mother Teresa.”
I groaned, peeling myself off the door like I was shedding a second skin.
“Please, don’t start.”
Cecilia came sweeping into the foyer like she was auditioning for a role in Dynasty: Coastal Edition. Her caftan was a breezy watercolor of coral and cream, cinched slightly at the waist and paired—naturally—with oversized sunglasses, a chunky gold necklace, and a fresh blowout that somehow defied the humidity entirely. She had a highball glass in one hand and her phone in the other, like a socialite-turned-private investigator.
“I’ve done some research,”
she said, arching a brow and taking a sip of what I was fairly certain was not iced tea.
“Oh no,”
I muttered, taking off my sandals.
“Oh yes,”
she sang.
“Hudson Knight. Age forty-two, which is shocking because he looks not a day over thirty. Famous actor. Known tabloid disaster. Did you know he once got into a fistfight with a drag queen at the Beverly Hills Hotel bar?”
“Only Hudson Knight would find a way to lose and get dragged in six-inch stilettos,”
I replied, heading toward the kitchen.
“There was also a yacht incident. And a steamy, naked photoshoot with snakes—literal snakes—not metaphorical ones. And apparently, he once told a reporter that he considers brunch an emotional experience, which I find highly respectable.”
“I take it you’ve spent the afternoon in a Google rabbit hole,”
I ventured.
“I needed something to do while you played lifeguard,”
she replied, following me like a well-dressed shadow.
“After you sent me all those texts from the hospital, I just couldn’t help myself.”
I poured myself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher in the fridge—cucumber, lemon, mint, the works. Something clean, crisp, refreshing. I dropped two ice cubes in and gave it a gentle swirl before turning to face her.
“You know, there was a moment where I thought he was going to cry,”
I said, surprising even myself.
Cecilia blinked.
“Tears? From Hudson ‘Shots at Sunrise’ Knight?”
I nodded.
“Just a flicker. Right when the doctor told him he couldn’t go back on the beach for a week. It was like telling a toddler he couldn’t have dessert.”
She leaned dramatically against the island, hand to chest.
“How tragic. Denied the sun, the surf, and the gaze of strangers.”
I chuckled and took a long sip.
“Sounds like he made a career off his looks alone.”
“Well, he certainly didn’t make it off emotional maturity,”
she said with a grin.
“But he is handsome. I’ll give him that. The jawline, the tan, that whole reckless Malibu thing. I can see the appeal.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I could almost hear them click.
“Yes, yes. He looks like a cologne ad that came to life and developed a criminal record.”
“And yet,”
she said, holding up a manicured finger, “you helped him. Bandaged him. Drove him to the hospital. Sat in a waiting room with him for two hours. If that’s not a meet-cute, I don’t know what is.”
“It’s not a meet-cute. It’s a public health hazard.”
We both laughed as I walked toward the back patio, drink in hand. The glass door slid open with a soft whoosh, and a wall of golden light spilled in. The late afternoon sun shimmered over the pool like a layer of glass, unmoved and serene. I stepped outside, letting the warmth wrap around me again, this time with the comfort of shade and a cold drink in hand.
Cecilia followed, flopping gracefully into one of the ivory-cushioned lounge chairs by the pool. I took the one beside her, letting out a slow sigh as I sank back and stretched out my legs.
The umbrella above us cast a perfectly shaped oval of shade. A soft breeze rustled the trees planted along the edge of the patio. Birds chirped in the distance. The rhythmic splash of the neighbor’s fountain offered the kind of tranquil white noise usually reserved for meditation apps and high-end spas.
And for a moment, I just breathed.
Cecilia glanced over.
“So… what’s next? A romantic beachside dinner? Maybe he shows up limping and confesses he’s not as shallow as he seems?”
“I’m not writing a romance novel, Mother.”
“Well, you could be.”
I shook my head, sipping my tea.
“He’s mayhem. Absolute mayhem. Like a pi?ata filled with glitter and prescription meds.”
“But…?”
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I looked out over the pool, watching as the wind gently kissed its surface into a gentle ripple.
“But,”
I finally said, “maybe even mayhem has layers.”
Cecilia raised her glass.
“To layers, then.”
“To layers,”
I echoed, clinking mine against hers.
We reclined in our chairs, the sun retreating slowly toward the horizon, casting everything in a soft honey glow. The kind of light that made even the loudest days feel just a little more forgiving.
And there we sat, side by side—me, mentally untangling the complications of a very unexpected neighbor, and her, likely planning what to wear should Hudson ever come by with a borrowed bottle of tequila and a wounded heart.
I wasn’t sure what the rest of this trip would bring.
But for now?
The tea was cold. The breeze was gentle. And for the first time since the bleeding foot fiasco, I felt like the day had finally—blessedly—quieted.
I had spent a total of fifteen minutes by the pool, and already I could feel the exhaustion wash over me. The pool was glistening, each ripple showcasing a cascade of diamonds dripping in the light. Despite how beautiful the day still was, I found myself retreating—iced tea in hand, sandals in the other, a tension in my neck that had only partially been soothed by the warm breeze and my mother’s relentless commentary. I needed rest. Not just the physical kind, but the kind that peeled the noise away layer by layer.
I stepped into the house, letting the door slide shut behind me with a soft click. The air conditioning greeted me like an old friend—brisk, dry, and just the right degree of judgmental. My linen shirt clung to me in a damp hug, and my body, which had carried Hudson Knight’s weight and the chaos of his existence all afternoon, finally cried uncle.
“Off to take your dramatic little nap?”
came Cecilia’s voice from the direction of the kitchen, wrapped in mockery and citrus perfume.
I set my tea on the white quartz island next to her half-finished cocktail.
“It’s not dramatic. It’s preventative care. Emotional triage.”
Cecilia stood at the sink, swirling a lemon wedge around the rim of her glass like she was rehearsing for a summer cocktail segment on morning television.
“I’d call it self-preservation if you weren’t already halfway to sainthood for what you did this afternoon.”
I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck.
“Let’s not canonize me just yet. I didn’t resurrect him from the dead. I just drove him to Beebe with his sole bleeding like a scene from Kill Bill.”
She turned to face me fully, leaning against the counter with that all-knowing glint in her eye.
“Still. Not everyone would’ve done what you did.”
“Sure they would’ve,”
I muttered, walking toward the hallway.
“Unless they had common sense or boundaries.”
Cecilia clicked her tongue.
“Don’t act like you weren’t a little intrigued.”
I stopped at the archway, one hand braced on the molding.
“Intrigued is a strong word. Let’s go with… surprised. Caught off guard. Maybe vaguely compelled by the bizarre theatricality of it all.”
She sipped her drink and gave me the kind of maternal once-over that always made me feel like I was eight years old and had hidden contraband under my bed.
“You know, Hudson’s probably sitting in that monstrosity of a house right now, leg propped up, wondering if anyone gives a damn.”
“Well, I gave a damn today,”
I said, “and now I need a nap.”
“You sure you don’t want to invite him to dinner?”
I turned fully now, arms crossed. “No.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Just asking.”
“You don’t just ask. You plant seeds. You scheme.”
“I’m retired,”
she said innocently.
I gave her a pointed look. “Mother.”
She sighed dramatically, swirling the ice in her glass.
“I just think it would be kind. He’s injured. Alone. Probably starving. On crutches. A little emotional support might not be the worst thing.”
I walked back into the kitchen, grabbing my tea again, if only for something to hold.
“He’s not a stray cat. He’s a grown man who owns silk robes and once said in an interview that he doesn’t believe in monogamy because it limits his ‘creative expression.’”
Cecilia grinned.
“Yes, I did read that. Truly poetic.”
“And I’m not interested in coddling someone who caused a scene on the beach, ruined my afternoon, and just barely managed to say thank you without following it up with a dick joke.”
She gave me that look again. The quiet one. The one she wore when she sensed I was deflecting with irritation rather than honesty.
“You’re right, darling. One meal for just the two of us sounds perfect.”
I nodded, though something tightened in my chest as I said it.
Because the truth was, Hudson had thanked me. Sincerely. And he had looked… small. Quiet. A little ashamed, even. That wounded look in his eye when the doctor explained the crutches and beach ban for the week—it wasn’t the gaze of a man who liked being taken care of. It was the look of someone who didn’t know how to be.
And that was dangerous.
Not dangerous in the way most people found Hudson Knight dangerous. Not tabloid-dangerous or tequila-fueled yacht fight dangerous.
Emotional dangerous.
The kind of dangerous that made you wonder if someone like that—arrogant, chaotic, overexposed—might actually be lonely underneath it all.
Which, of course, was not my problem.
I shook the thought from my head like a wet dog shaking off bathwater.
As I walked toward the stairs, I heard her call out after me.
“But if he staggers over with that boyish grin and a bottle of tequila, I’m answering the door!”
“Then tell him I’m allergic to tequila and poor decisions,”
I replied.
She cackled, and the sound echoed through the halls behind me.
I climbed the stairs slowly, not from lethargy but from a low-simmering swirl of thoughts I didn’t quite want to claim. The house was quiet again. The air cool and calm. I passed two guest rooms and continued to my bedroom.
The bed was made, of course. White sheets. Pale blue coverlet. Everything perfectly arranged—except for me.
I crawled under the blanket, pulling it up over my chest, the tension easing just a touch.
Maybe Hudson Knight was just a summer blip. A minor character in my story. A heatwave of glitter and arrogance that would pass.
Or maybe not.
The jury was still out.
And so far, I wasn’t ready to deliver a verdict.
For now, I closed my eyes and let the weight of the day slide off my shoulders—just for a little while.
One cat nap. One meal. Just me and Cecilia.
That was the plan.
And I intended to savor every damn moment of it.