Miles
I stood there for a second too long.
The ocean stretched out behind me, a dark and endless velvet curtain, and the wind blew salty and soft against my lips, the same lips that had just been kissed—no, ambushed—by Hudson Knight.
What the hell had just happened?
One second, I was giving him a polite but firm goodnight outside my beach house like a civilized adult, and the next… his hand was on my wrist, and his lips were on mine. Soft. Tentative. Not the kind of kiss you’d expect from someone like Hudson Knight, who typically radiated turbulent male celebrity energy—shirtless TMZ pool-party drama and accidentally leaked DMs. But this? This kiss was gentle. Almost… sweet.
Which made it worse.
I didn’t even say anything. I just backed away and told him I needed to go inside. Because what else could I say? That I was flattered? That it felt good? That his lips were warm and surprisingly plush? That I hadn’t kissed anyone since Owen, and this made me feel like the world was maybe spinning again after all this time sitting still?
I didn’t say any of that.
I just walked inside.
The back sliding door gave a soft whump as I shut it behind me. I didn’t even bother turning on the overhead lights. The moonlight spilled through the tall windows, casting pale ribbons across the floorboards of the living room. The distant crashing of waves filtered through the glass, layered with the occasional creak of the deck railing in the wind.
And there, waiting for me like a loyal little sentry, was Topper.
He pranced over, nails clicking lightly on the floor, his little cream and caramel-colored body a blur of fluff and excitement. I collapsed onto the couch in a heap, and without hesitation, Topper jumped up and plopped into my lap, wiggling until his head found the crook of my arm.
“Oh, you still love me unconditionally,”
I murmured, scratching behind his ears as his tail thudded happily against my thigh.
The martinis were still having their effect on me. I could feel the buzz softening the edges of my thoughts, making everything feel oddly floaty and far away. Maybe that was why the kiss felt like a dream. Or maybe it was the way Hudson had looked at me before he did it—like he wasn’t sure if he should, but also like he didn’t want to leave until he did.
I leaned my head back against the cushion, staring up at the ceiling fan above me, its blades unmoving. The ceiling itself was wood-planked—whitewashed and elegant in that way only carefully curated beach homes ever seemed to pull off. It should have calmed me. It usually did. But not tonight.
I’d planned to end the evening with a quiet read, a homemade peach tart, and maybe the sound of the surf to lull me into forgetting how strange this entire summer had become. But no. Instead, I’d somehow ended up buzzed and kissed by Hudson freaking Knight.
Topper shifted in my lap, his nose nuzzling under my palm. I smiled faintly and kept rubbing.
“You know,”
I said aloud to him, “there are men who would trade their pinky toe for the chance to kiss Hudson Knight.”
Topper sneezed. I took that as commentary.
“It’s not like I was looking for it,”
I continued.
“I didn’t expect it. But…”
I trailed off.
“But it was nice.”
No, more than nice. It was—God help me—thrilling. Not in a fireworks and trumpets kind of way, but in a low, humming way that settles in your bones. Like the first sip of wine after a long day. The quiet gasp that comes when something surprises you in a good way.
And somehow, he’d done that.
I felt something tug at the corner of my lips, and it took me a moment to realize I was smiling. Me. Smiling like a boy who got asked to prom by the popular jock.
What the hell was happening?
This wasn’t part of the plan. The whole point of this retreat—this week of planned menus, designer beach towels, and morning runs with scenic views—was to get away from men. From Owen. From drama. From being emotionally available to anyone.
And now Hudson Knight was in my head, taking up valuable real estate I’d been trying to clear out. Just… loitering there like a shirtless squatter with sunglasses and a chaotic smirk.
I looked down at Topper, who stared back up at me with those big, trusting eyes.
“I’m not ready for this, am I?”
He blinked slowly.
“Didn’t think so,”
I said, sighing as I let my head fall sideways on the pillow. The cushions smelled like fresh cotton spray. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the weight of the night settle into my limbs.
Outside, the waves kept rolling in.
And somewhere in that darkness, Hudson Knight was probably walking back to his place, just as confused as I was.
But neither of us could take that kiss back now.
And I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
What on earth was I thinking?
Scratch that. What on earth was he thinking?
It had to be the martinis. That’s what I kept telling myself. Three extra dirty martinis, served in those chilled V-shaped glasses that make you feel like you’re more sophisticated than you really are. Liquid courage disguised as elegance. That’s all it was.
And yet, I could still feel it.
His lips—softer than I expected for a man so loud, brash, and utterly inappropriate. The gentle pressure of his fingers circling my wrist before he spun me around. His scent still lingered faintly in the sea air, that ridiculous musky cologne that screamed I’m-a-celebrity-even-if-you-don’t-know-it.
Then, from behind me, came a voice. Smooth. Cool. Mischievous as a stirred cocktail.
“Well, that took a rather quick turn, didn’t it?”
I jolted upright.
Cecilia. Of course.
She glided into the room like a champagne-fueled specter, wearing a flowing silk kimono in hues of navy and wine, a flute of actual champagne balanced delicately in one hand. She lowered herself into the wingback chair across from me, legs crossed with the ease of someone who knew she was about to cause trouble.
I blinked at her.
“You’re still awake?”
She sipped.
“Darling, please. It’s a vacation. Even I can live a little, too. Besides, I was up on the upper deck, reclined quite gracefully, I might add, when I noticed two dashing figures canoodling just beyond the dune grass. One of them had a noticeable limp. The other—well, the other looked suspiciously like my son.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Hudson was drunk,”
I blurted.
“That was nothing. He had one too many martinis. I pulled away. He’ll regret it in the morning.”
She gave me a look so drenched in sarcasm it could’ve melted titanium. “Suuure.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What?”
She leaned forward slightly, her champagne flute poised like a punctuation mark.
“, the man literally canceled a party full of shirtless studs and scandal-hungry gays just to go looking for you. He kicked them all out. That doesn’t sound like ‘oops-I’m-tipsy’ behavior. That sounds… intentional.”
I sighed and shifted to sit next to her. Topper followed, plopping his warm little body against my thigh.
“Believe me,”
I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
“It was just a simple kiss. Nothing more. It’s far too early for me to even be thinking about things like this. This whole weekend was supposed to be about me. Reflection. Solitude. Self-care. Not… whatever that was out there.”
Cecilia studied me for a moment. Then she smiled, softly this time.
“You know, for someone who lives their entire life in control, in order, with color-coded calendars and pre-portioned quinoa, you sure are bad at recognizing when the universe is giving you a gift.”
I blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
She sipped.
“Why must your life always be a script? A recipe with steps, measurements, and preheating instructions? Do you not realize how exhausting it is watching you treat your feelings like baking powder—measured precisely, never too much, lest the whole thing collapse?”
I opened my mouth to retort, but nothing came out.
My mother pressed on, her voice lighter now, but thoughtful.
“Maybe it’s time to toss the recipe, darling. Maybe it’s time to cook without instructions. See what happens. Surprise yourself.”
I looked down at Topper, who gave me a sleepy blink. Then, back at my mother. Her eyes were tired but wise, knowing but kind. And annoyingly,… probably right.
I didn’t say anything.
Because maybe I didn’t need to.
At least not yet.
Cecilia and I sat in that dimly lit living room, the kind of lighting that blurred the lines between comfort and vulnerability. The sort of glow that made your thoughts softer, more honest. The waves outside had quieted some, now just a steady hush against the shore—a lullaby in the background. Topper had given up trying to understand our conversation and retreated to his favorite blanket on the rug, already asleep and twitching in a dream about who knows what.
I sat forward and rested my elbows on my knees, staring down at the woven pattern of the rug, tracing it with my eyes as if it might lead me to some kind of answer. My mother had gone silent, too, swirling the last of her champagne around in the glass. The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was lived-in, like a familiar old song we both knew the words to but weren’t ready to sing just yet.
“You know,”
I finally said, my voice softer now, “I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened if I’d just loosened up a bit. If I hadn’t treated my marriage like a curated museum exhibit. Everything clean, labeled, and behind glass.”
She glanced at me without speaking, just listening. Letting me open the drawer, one confession at a time.
“I planned everything,”
I said.
“I mean, I really planned it. Sunday morning omelets. Quarterly getaways. Anniversary dinners that required reservation spreadsheets. Everything had its place. Even sex.”
I let out a bitter little laugh.
“Especially sex.”
Cecilia didn’t say anything, which was both comforting and maddening.
“I thought if I gave us the perfect life,”
I continued, “Owen would always feel taken care of. Like he was lucky to be in it. But I think… I think he just felt like a guest. Like someone who had to keep his shoes off and not touch the walls.”
Still, she was quiet.
I looked over at her.
“You can say it. You warned me. More than once.”
She sighed through her nose and leaned back.
“Darling, I didn’t want to be right. I wanted you to be happy. But you… you’re so scared of mess. Not just physical mess, but emotional mess, too. Uncertainty. You live like life is a linen closet.”
I smirked despite myself.
“Color-coded by shade and size.”
“Exactly.”
I let that sit for a moment, that truth. The heavy kind. The kind you don’t want to carry, but it still rides shotgun.
“Owen told me once,”
I said, “during a fight—one of those silent, careful fights where no one raises their voice—that I didn’t leave space for spontaneity. That living with me was like living inside a hotel lobby. Beautiful. Polished. But not… personal.”
I heard the pain in my own voice, and I hated it. Hated how it cracked a little toward the end.
“You loved him,”
she said quietly.
“I did.”
“And he betrayed you.”
I nodded. “He did.”
We sat in silence again. The kind that felt more final this time. Like we’d reached the edge of something.
Then I exhaled. A long, deliberate breath. I wasn’t going to cry. I’d already done that. I’d done it in the pantry, holding a broken ramekin. I’d done it in the shower with eucalyptus steam stinging my eyes. I’d done it quietly on the drive to Rehoboth Beach, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing holding me together.
“But I don’t want to talk about Owen anymore,”
I said, shaking my head and sitting back.
Cecilia raised an eyebrow.
“Or Hudson,”
I added quickly, before she could steer the conversation there.
“Oh, now that name carries a bit of heat,”
she teased.
“Mother.”
She laughed and held up her hands.
“Fine, fine. No Hudson talk.”
I rubbed my face with both hands and then blinked up at the ceiling.
“You know what I really want right now?”
“What?”
she asked, setting her glass down on the end table.
“Dessert.”
Cecilia blinked.
“Excuse me?”
I sat up straighter.
“I mean it. I have everything—flour, sugar, butter, fresh white apricots, even the fancy vanilla paste I ordered from France like a lunatic. I was going to make a white apricot galette with a brown butter crust and a thyme-honey glaze at some point this weekend. It would be a shame for it all to go to waste.”
“You want to bake?”
she asked flatly, studying me.
“I want dessert,”
I clarified.
“But then again, you probably shouldn’t have too much sugar this late at night. Blood sugar and sleep and all that.”
She stood slowly, brushing invisible lint from her pants. Then she walked around behind the couch and placed one manicured hand on my shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze.
“I’ll be fine with a little sugar,”
she said, her voice rich and warm.
“Like I told you before—it’s fun to go off script.”
I looked up at her, and there was something in her expression I couldn’t quite place. Not pity. Not smugness. Something gentler. Wistfulness, maybe. Hope.
Maybe even a little pride.
I nodded slowly.
Then stood.
“Come on,”
I said, tugging at her hand.
“Let’s ruin our diets.”