Miles
I needed to breathe.
After the weekend I’d had—no, the life I’d had—I wanted quiet. A place where no one would bark orders, where no one would flirt with ill-timed smirks, and where no one would remind me of broken promises sealed with wedding bands that now sat in a jewelry drawer beside expired eye creams and trial-sized moisturizers I’d never commit to.
The Top of the Pines had always intrigued me, but I’d never made it through the wooden doors until tonight. Just stepping in felt like exhaling. It was like walking into a forest fantasy reimagined by a moody interior designer with a flair for drama. Every inch of the space honored its name. The tufted furniture looked like it had been plucked straight from an enchanted forest—nursery trees and all. High-glossed logs, cut into thick, elegant slabs, were transformed into cocktail tables, their natural grains gleaming under flickering candlelight. The walls were dressed in layers of rich mossy greens and cinnamon browns, with the occasional splash of beige-like patches of starlight peeking through a canopy.
The canopy—that lovely canopy. In the middle of the lounge stood an enormous artificial pine tree, its trunk wide and gnarled like something out of a storybook. The limbs stretched toward the ceiling and then outward, crawling like ivy across the overhead beams. Embedded within the branches were tiny green LED lights, glowing like enchanted fireflies. They cast dappled shadows across the floor and made the whole room shimmer with this filtered faux-moonlight glow. It was part woodland escape, part moody gay speakeasy, and honestly? It was perfect for me.
I settled into one of the oversized leather sofas tucked into a corner, the kind of sofa that practically hugged you back. In front of me was a knotty pine drink table that added just the right rustic touch to the otherwise composed whimsy of the room. I reached for my extra dirty martini—Grey Goose, three blue cheese stuffed olives, slight vermouth, and significantly extra brine. I took a sip.
Salty.
Bracing.
Just the way I liked it.
The pianist at the front of the lounge played a gentle rendition of “La Vie en Rose,”
the notes floating through the room like perfume. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the music lull me into a rare state of stillness. This was the kind of place where you could feel the wallpaper—textured, lived-in, intimate. It didn’t demand anything from me. It didn’t need me to perform.
Not like everyone else in my life.
I was supposed to be at home right now, enjoying a decadent dessert. That was my plan. That was my night. Instead, I was in linen and loafers, hiding from the thumping bass of Hudson Knight’s impromptu beach orgy-slash-party next door.
So much for peace.
That man was—what? Infuriating? Exasperating? Tempting? All of the above? There was something about him that rubbed against the grain of my entire existence. And yet, some masochistic part of me kept checking my phone—like his name might appear out of nowhere, even though he didn’t have my number. He hadn’t messaged, of course. He couldn’t. But that didn’t stop me from looking.
My mind was supposed to be focused on the verdant scene, the soft hymns from the piano, and the invigorating taste of my extra dirty martini. But, it was not fully capable of such relaxation right now. It somehow wanted to drift to all the current drama in my life. And not just Hudson.
My head went right to thoughts of Owen once again.
I clenched the stem of my martini glass tighter than necessary.
Owen, with his perfectly practiced apologies and casual betrayals. The man who once promised me forever but couldn’t keep it together for a decade. He had me believing I was the problem. That my perfectionism, my lists, and my organized world made me cold. That my need for structure was an imposition.
But now, with the noise of that party vibrating through the walls of my vacation beach house and Hudson tossing his charm like confetti, I was beginning to wonder if maybe—just maybe—being cold wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
At least cold things didn’t melt so easily.
“Sweet Caroline!”
the crowd sang along as the pianist abruptly changed course. And there it was—the straight-white-people trifecta I had predicted all along. Any second now, I was bound to hear “Don’t Stop Believin”
by Journey or “‘Livin’ on a Prayer,”
by Bon Jovi, and yes, bless them, but no, thank you.
Not for me tonight…
Still, it wasn’t crowded. Not yet. A modest gathering of quiet couples, some solo patrons like me, and a trio of middle-aged men giggling over a shared plate of warmed crab dip.
The lights were low enough that no one recognized me, or if they did, they had the decency to let me pretend otherwise. No whispers of “ Whitaker”
floated through the air. No awkward “I follow you on Instagram”
interruptions. Just the music. Just the tree and the green glow that casts everything in this strange, beautiful calm.
And for the first time in what felt like a while, I let myself relax. I let my shoulders drop. I uncrossed my legs. I took another long sip of my martini and placed it gently back onto the wooden table. I didn’t have to fix anything right now. I didn’t have to smile through the discomfort or soothe anyone else’s feelings.
I just had to be.
And right now? That was enough.
I was finally alone.
And I don’t mean in the pathetic, woe is me kind of way. I mean in the truly sacred sense. The sort of rare solitude you crave but never quite manage to find when your name is synonymous with order, hospitality, and the color-coded spice rack.
No crashing waves of regret. No barking dog (although Topper is my life, and I love that baby to death). No raucous drag of a party thumping through my walls. Just me, my drink, and the ambiance of a woodland speakeasy.
Of course, it was too good to last.
Just as I was closing my eyes and letting the vodka and olive brine burn away the memory of Hudson Knight’s never-ending castaway circus next door, I felt it—a tap on the shoulder. Light, but deliberate.
I turned my head and looked up.
Of course.
There he was.
Hudson fucking Knight.
I blinked.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
His face—smug, scruffy, and irritatingly handsome—broke into a slow grin. He looked like he knew exactly what kind of elegant turmoil he was dropping into, which, of course, made me want to throw my martini at his perfectly chiseled face.
“Hey,”
he said casually, like we were old friends bumping into each other at Trader Joe’s, not two people separated by a very literal property line and philosophical divide.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Why are you here? How did you even find me? And what happened to your party?”
He gestured vaguely behind him.
“Canceled it.”
My mouth parted.
“You canceled an entire beach party? You can’t be serious?”
“Yeah. Got bored. Plus, everyone was a little too… dehydrated. It was getting sloppy. You know how gays are with an open bar and no sense of personal boundaries.”
I stared.
“So, you kicked out dozens of people and came here?”
“I figured you might be out. Rehoboth’s not that big. Checked Aqua—too many wings and plastic red pitchforks. Diego’s was presumably too loud for your royal highness. This place felt… you. And sure enough, I was right as rain.”
I folded my arms across my chest, glaring at him.
“You ruined my dinner.”
He nodded solemnly.
“The swordfish smelled amazing, by the way. It did creep over across the way. Cooked fish always does, after all.”
“And you ruined my dessert. I was going to bake this white apricot galette with a brown butter crust. Instead, I had to listen to ‘Vogue’ vibrating through my floorboards.”
“I thought that was a compliment,” he said.
I ignored him.
“And I had plans to work on my outline tonight. The new book. The one I may have told you about? I can’t quite remember now.”
“The one about organizing your emotions through throw pillow placement?”
he asked, smirking.
“It’s about mindful home design through structured living,”
I snapped.
“God, you are insufferable. Why did you even come here? Just to rile me all up?”
Hudson slid his hands into the pockets of his pants, looking mildly amused. He was wearing a wrinkled white button-down that was half unbuttoned, and his tan skin practically glowed under the green lights. At least he had the decency to change into something moderately appropriate from his party attire. If he weren’t so utterly abysmal, he’d almost be… alluring.
“Can I sit?”
he asked finally, nodding at the empty space beside me on the green leather sofa.
I exhaled, long and dramatic.
“I suppose. You’ve already ruined the night. Might as well follow through.”
He chuckled and lowered himself carefully into the seat, favoring his stitched-up foot.
“Careful,”
I muttered.
“Wouldn’t want your stitches to pop open and bleed all over this fairy woodland fantasy.”
He gave a lazy grin.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I took a sip of my martini, the brine cutting through the frustration. The piano player was now shifting to some 80s tunes, the first, a medley combination of “Fame”
and Irene Cara’s “What a Feeling,”
which I didn’t mind at all.
Hudson leaned back, studying me.
“You really hate me, don’t you?”
“I don’t hate you,”
I said slowly.
“I just… strongly resent the way you bulldoze through people’s lives like they’re furniture at a clearance sale.”
He laughed loudly.
“That’s… honestly the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
I said nothing, just stared straight ahead at the piano while he quietly chuckled next to me, his cologne mingling with the faint scent of cedar and a gin-tequila combo.
God help me; the man was exhausting.
But at least, for now, he was quiet.
That was at least a start.
As the song ended, I could hear a soft applause, the muted clink of glasses and the low murmur of conversation surrounding us, but inside my head, everything felt a volume higher—hyper-aware, cautious, bristling. The Top of the Pines was too perfect, too serene, and next to me sat the one person who’d shattered my plans for a quiet evening: Hudson Knight.
He looked around the lounge with half-amused satisfaction, surveying tufted leather chairs and glowing knotty pine tables like a conqueror in new territory. Then he raised a hand to flag down the server.
“What’ll it be?”
the waiter asked.
Hudson leaned back, tapping the polished wood table.
“Something interesting. Surprise me.”
I stayed still, stirring my martini, gaze fixed on the olive meandering in the glass. Hudson caught me off guard sometimes, usually not in a good way. But curiosity—not anger—made me watch him.
The server offered a conspiratorial wink and returned moments later with a lowball of dark amber liquid crowned with a twist of orange peel. Hudson accepted it with a pleased smirk, sniffing it as though auditioning a candle for scent.
He took a generous sip, then turned to me.
“You know, I gotta admit—I’m not surprised you’re here. It’s summer in a gay beach town. All the loud clubs and crowds, and here you are, hiding out with your precious martini trees.”
I tried not to react, but his words hit a nerve.
“Not hiding,”
I said softly.
“Processing.”
Hudson chuckled.
“Processing.”
He took another sip.
“Look, I get it. We all want to escape sometimes. Especially when life—gets messy.”
I looked at him. Felt the warmth of the martini burn through me. Right then and there, I knew he had done his research, whether it was hiring a private investigator or reaching out to someone else close to me about what I had hidden from him.
My divorce with Owen.
“How’d you know?” I asked.
Hudson paused mid-sip, eyebrows lifted.
“Well… I don’t want to throw anyone under the bus.”
He glanced around dramatically.
“I guess I can kind of understand why you’d want some alone time. Especially with the whole divorce thing…”
I froze. My eyes widened in shock.
“The divorce… How did you—? Spill it. Who told you?”
Hudson set down his drink, blood-red bar light reflecting in the liquid.
“A little birdie.”
He let the phrase linger for amusement.
I blinked slowly. Then realization struck.
“It seems my mother far outstayed her unwelcome at your party this evening.”
Hudson laughed—loud, unapologetic.
“She’s something else, that woman.”
I frowned. My gaze moved to him—closer now, more serious. He was watching me with genuine interest, not a smirk or title. That feeling unsettled me.
“Tell me,”
he said quietly.
“What happened with Owen?”
I closed my eyes and took a breath. A real one.
“It was… complicated. We built a life on image—I mean, the perfect life. The fancy house in New Jersey, the blog photos, the glamor. But it crumbled when I caught him cheating. I tried to salvage it—but he refused to face it. He pulled out. Everything fell apart.”
I let the words sit and watched Hudson’s expression soften—just slightly. Then I added, “The house next to yours? It’s not mine. It’s my mother’s friend’s place, actually. I do have a house ten minutes down the road from it. But I needed a weekend to escape my house and the memories of him. I love Rehoboth Beach so much. Still, I just needed a new house to be in, at least for a weekend, preferably a beachfront property, to clear my head. But, I also needed… breathing room.”
Hudson pursed his lips. Nodded, his injured foot tapping discreetly.
“Yeah. I get it. I’m… going through my own shit with Jackson. Still bleeding—literally, apparently.”
His tone stayed self-deprecating as he glanced down at his wounded foot, but the admission kept us grounded in shared fracture.
We sat in silence for a moment—me, processing him, listening in unexpected stillness. The piano broke into a soft jazzy “Someone to Watch Over Me”—a lull in the tavern kitsch that matched the mood.
I stirred my martini more aggressively, twirling the olive.
“So, you really canceled the party? I don’t believe it.”
He shrugged.
“After you left, I lost interest. It felt performative, a bit hollow.”
He paused.
“And when your mom showed up? That sealed it. I wanted the drama—not the petty. But I thought… maybe I could still reach you.”
I laughed softly. Wry.
“You’re relentless.”
Hudson tilted his head.
“Maybe I am.”
I sighed. I suppose I’d let the smallest crack appear. But my therapist did once tell me cracks let in light.
We finished our drinks—mine slowly, his faster. Then he stood, wincing slightly.
“Let me buy you another drink,”
he offered.
I looked at him, realizing I didn’t have a better plan.
“Fine,” I said.
Little did I know that another drink would turn into quite a few drinks.
Hudson Knight was really something else…