Hudson
There were two things I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do after turning forty: host my own parties and do cardio that didn’t involve a bed or a man named Luca. I was proud to say that tonight, I was upholding at least one of those vows.
Did I lift a single finger setting up for this party? Absolutely not. I didn’t haul furniture, hang up lighting, or even arrange the seahorse-shaped ice buckets my assistant had ordered from some mainland shop. Why would I? That’s what money is for. And I have plenty of it—still. Against all odds.
Instead, I paid a team of hot, half-naked boys in neon speedos and open beach shirts to do the honors. Bartenders, servers, a DJ who looked like he moonlighted as a personal trainer for drag queens—all of them knew their place and their purpose.
The theme? Castaway Chic. Think shipwreck meets poolside thirst trap. Torn sarongs, shell necklaces, bronzed abs, and enough coconut-scented body oil to start a fire if anyone got too close to a tiki torch.
I was, naturally, the centerpiece. Draped in a tattered white tank top and loose, sun-bleached pants with a silk scarf knotted around my neck—because even marooned gays should accessorize—I sat regally with my stitched-up foot elevated on a velvet ottoman like a wounded heiress from a Tennessee Williams play.
And everyone stared at me.
They always do.
A steady stream of gorgeous, glistening bodies flowed in and out of the backyard, spilling from the pool to the deck and into the sand. The air smelled like sunscreen, tequila, and ambition. My music—some thumping, bitchy Eurotrash remix—was rattling the windows. I counted at least eighty people. I had invited twenty, but gay men travel in packs, and one RSVP turns into five very quickly when someone says the words Knight’s place and open bar.
Let them come. Let them gawk.
Men kept slipping me drinks I hadn’t asked for, lingering too long with their eyes, fingers grazing my arm, or brushing against my shoulder like they were checking to see if I was real. Of course, I was real. I was the main attraction. A wounded gazelle with a complicated past and a dangerously sexy Instagram following.
But through all the attention, all the eye-fucking, one face was conspicuously absent.
Miles Whitaker.
Not that I expected him to show up. The man probably thinks a gay pool party is a public health crisis. But some dark part of me—a petty, nosy little voice in the back of my mind—wondered if he was watching from his ivory tower, seething into a glass of organic sangria.
Fucking let him.
Let him watch this glorious circus.
People swayed to the beat. A boy with glittered cheeks did a backflip into the pool, nearly taking out a guy in mesh shorts. Glow necklaces were passed around like communion wafers. Someone had a disco ball hooked up to a drone.
And yes, I was keeping it together.
No slurred speeches. No drunken screaming. No one was getting filmed doing anything scandalous—yet. I was alert, hydrated, and charming, thank you very much. My agent had warned me: “No more meltdowns, . No more viral clips of you drunk-crying in a hot tub.”
So, I stayed composed. Watched. Smiled when necessary. Even posed for a few selfies with people I didn’t recognize but who probably tagged me, anyway.
Still, a man gets tired.
Especially one with stitches and a reputation to uphold.
And as the party roared on and the moon began to rise, I kept one eye on the pool… and one ear tuned to the faintest sound from next door.
Waiting.
But still, a no-show.
I couldn’t help but be tempted to stalk Miles on Instagram, only to see he just made a post fifteen minutes ago with an amazing seafood spread he made, what looked to be on a deck overlooking the ocean.
Whatever. Let Miles keep his fucking artisanal crab cakes.
Tonight, I was serving fantasy—and baby, they were eating it up.
But speak of the devil…
The second I saw him, my heart did a stupid little flip.
There he was—Miles Whitaker, storming across my backyard like a thundercloud in designer loafers. White linen shirt so crisp it could slice ham, khaki shorts that probably cost more than a normal person’s first car, and a jaw so clenched you’d think he was auditioning for an antacid commercial. Behind him, like a goddamn goddess of dramatic timing, floated an older woman in a flowing dress, oversized sunglasses, and the air of someone who drinks gin at noon and has buried six husbands.
They were certainly not here for a cocktail.
I took one last drag off my drink—something fruity and dangerous made by the bartenders I hired strictly based on their ability to rock a speedo and open a bottle one-handed—and limped my way toward them with all the grace of a giraffe in stilettos. Crutches? Nowhere in sight. I had too much pride and too much tequila in my system to be seen hobbling.
“Miles, baby!”
I said, draping an arm around his shoulders like we were brunch besties.
He shoved it off with all the warmth of a TSA pat-down.
“Don’t.”
Ooookay. I guess we were in DEFCON 2 still.
“You look tense,”
I offered.
“Did the artisan cocktail not steep long enough, or did your dog find your hidden stash of organic dog treats again?”
“The music,”
he said, and I swear his eyebrow twitched.
“It’s so loud, my walls were vibrating. I had to stop filming a video because it sounded like Studio 54 exploded in my backyard.”
“I mean, technically, that’s kind of the vibe.”
“,”
he snapped, voice sharp enough to filet a sea bass.
“There are like one hundred people here.”
“Well, actually around eighty. But I can’t help it. I’m charming. Let the people see what they want to see.”
“You are reckless,”
he remarked.
I gave him my best innocent smirk, which, according to Instagram, is also my smoldering regret face.
“It’s Rehoboth Beach. It’s summer. It’s gay. You toss out the scent of a backyard bash, and suddenly, everyone’s cousin’s boyfriend’s Pilates instructor shows up in a crop top or tank.”
He looked like he wanted to scream. Instead, he pointed at my foot.
“You shouldn’t even be on that.”
“Technically not. But I’m putting most of the pressure on my left leg, so it’s really more of a… balance exercise.”
“You bled all over the beach today. You scared people.”
“I scared people? Highly doubtful. Just a flesh wound.”
Miles exhaled. Deep. Controlled. The kind of breath you take before you file a lawsuit or cancel brunch.
“I came here to ask you—politely—to turn it down.”
“Come on,”
I said, grinning.
“Stay. I’ve got cucumber gimlets, frozen lychee cocktails, and a guy doing fire spinning in the backyard. There are crab croquettes somewhere, probably. Let’s call it a peace summit.”
“No. I want quiet. I want a peaceful dinner on my deck. I want my swordfish and my dignity intact.”
I put a hand over my heart.
“Swordfish? You wound me.”
“You can’t buy or charm your way out of every situation,” he said.
“Sure I can,”
I shot back.
“That’s literally the American way.”
He was about to come at me with a rebuttal—I could see it brewing in his eyes—but then the woman behind him made a sound. A soft, judgmental sigh that could sand down granite.
And I finally turned my full attention to her.
Her dress was flowing. Her hair looked like it had its own lighting crew. She was elegance dipped in sass and topped with a martini.
“And you must be the radiant goddess who birthed this firecracker,”
I said, switching gears to full charm. I took her hand and pressed a kiss to it, ignoring the throbbing in my foot.
She raised an eyebrow.
“You’re either shameless or concussed.”
“Why not both?”
I grinned.
“Mmm,”
she purred.
“I like him. He’s full-on anarchy, but in a well-dressed sort of way.”
Miles looked at her like she’d lost her last marble. “Mother…”
“Oh, relax, darling,”
she said, swanning past him to inspect the glowing orbs strung across the trees.
“So he throws a party. It’s summer. We’re at the beach. Maybe you need to loosen up and have a cocktail instead of a coronary.”
“I was having swordfish with a peach and burrata salad,”
Miles muttered.
“And now you’re having tequila with flamingo straws. Life changes,”
I interjected.
Miles then whispered something to his mother, who then, in turn, whispered something back to him. Whatever she said, it must have set him off, because Miles looked pissed.
He groaned and turned on his heel.
“Whatever. If I can’t enjoy some peace and quiet at the beach house, I’m heading into town.”
I started to follow him—tottered, really—but the man was fast. That linen shirt caught the last of the deck lights like a damn spotlight as he disappeared into the front yard and out of reach.
“Miles!”
I called after him, leaning against a support post.
“Come on! Don’t be mad. Stay! There are limoncello popsicles and a guy dressed like Wilson from Cast Away! He even painted his face!”
Nothing.
Just the distant click of designer loafers on concrete and the swish of linen rage.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and muttered, “Well, shit.”
Why the hell did it matter? People flung themselves at me all the time. Literally, a guy was grinding on a tiki torch ten feet away, trying to make eye contact with me.
But Miles? He was different. He didn’t laugh at my jokes. He didn’t gawk. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t even like me.
And that?
That was hot.
Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe it was the way he managed to look like both a luxury hotel ad and an angry pelican at the same time. Maybe I liked being slapped with a verbal rolled-up newspaper for once.
Whatever it was, I wasn’t done with Miles Whitaker.
Not even close.