Hudson
I don’t usually wake up early unless it’s for a court appearance, a bad decision, or someone truly worth shaving my chest for. But today, for reasons my hungover brain couldn’t fully comprehend, I was up and buzzing—well, buzzing in the way a former party animal limps toward dignity with a stitched foot and a leftover boner for emotional vulnerability.
I took a long shower and ran a loofah over my body. Then I towel-dried and picked out an outfit as if I were auditioning for Brunch: The Musical. I landed on white linen drawstring pants that whispered “trust fund yoga cult,”
a sage green button-down I left carelessly open at the top, and the kind of espadrilles that only look good if you’ve slept with a fashion editor. I looked breezy, expensive, and just beachy enough to seem like I didn’t care—while, of course, caring deeply.
Hair? Tousled.
Cologne? A spritz of Tom Ford Neroli Portofino because I’m a slut for citrus.
Sunglasses? Tortoiseshell Persols. I looked like the kind of man who was either about to sip a mimosa or destroy a marriage. Hopefully both. Although, scratch the second part. That’s already been taken care of.
I hobbled next door to the ocean-blue beach house, AKA Miles’ perfectly structured coastal temple of aesthetic oppression. It looked like the kind of place that would call the HOA on you for drying a beach towel wrong. I knocked twice—brisk, charming, confident. The door creaked open, and—
“Oh. ,”
said the voice of a goddess—or at least the voice of a woman who thought she was. Standing before me was Cecilia, Miles’ mother, in a flowing green caftan that swirled like a peacock having a religious experience. She held a crystal champagne flute like it was a goddamn scepter, her hair coiffed into its own majestic climate system.
“Well, if it isn’t the scandal of the season,”
she said with a smirk, tilting her head as if inspecting me for smudges.
“I do love it when someone attractive shows up before noon.”
I grinned.
“You’re a vision, Cecilia. You look like you’re about to hold court and then sue a man for disappointing you in bed.”
“Oh, darling,”
she said, stepping aside and waving me in.
“I’d never waste the legal fees. Come in.”
Inside, the house smelled like roasted garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, and fresh herbs. It was pornographic. If Anthropologie opened a Michelin-starred restaurant, it would smell like this.
Miles was moving around the kitchen like a man who’d slept for four hours and had standards. He was in a crisp white apron over a pale blue shirt, his hair slightly tousled from the morning, his face focused, flushed. He didn’t notice me at first—he was torching something that smelled like heaven’s butthole. A tomato confit, or perhaps a rich frittata, was simmering on the stove.
“You’re just in time,”
Cecilia cooed, flopping elegantly into a chair by the island and crossing her legs with regal authority. She took a sip from her Bloody Mary and simpered like a woman who’d had her martini and the bartender.
She leaned toward me and whispered behind her glass.
“If you want the best Bloody Mary ever, darling, have Miles make it for you. I’m not kidding when I say it’s the best I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something.”
I raised a brow.
“Best ever, huh?”
“Ever,”
she repeated with reverence, as if invoking a sacred truth.
“And I’ve had them from Boston to Barcelona.”
I turned to Miles, who had finally noticed me, and gave a tight smile—somewhere between hello and I might still be thinking about your lips on mine last night.
“I’ll bite,”
I said, easing into the barstool across from him.
“Make me your masterpiece, Whitaker.”
He smirked, sliding a glass toward the prep area.
“Coming right up. But if you faint from flavor, I’m not resuscitating you.”
He moved like a man possessed, yanking bottles from a lower cabinet and arranging them with surgical precision. I watched with the kind of fascination usually reserved for court trials and Bravo finales.
He added cucumber-lime vodka—what the hell—followed by a slug of tomato juice so thick it looked like sin in a glass. A splash of pickle brine. A whisper of horseradish. Celery salt. Cracked pepper. A few drops of something dark and mysterious that he wouldn’t name, which only made me want it more. Then the pièce de résistance: a skewer with a dill pickle, a blue cheese-stuffed olive, and what looked suspiciously like a candied bacon twist.
Miles handed me the drink with the poise of an award-winning chef serving royalty.
“Here. Sip slowly. This is not a drive-thru cocktail.”
I raised the glass to my lips and took one long, decadent gulp. My eyes fluttered shut. My soul levitated.
“Damn,”
I muttered, licking the rim like a man who hadn’t tasted joy in months.
“Cecilia was right. This is one of the best Bloody Marys I’ve ever had. And I’ve had one made by a drag queen in Palm Springs who lit the celery on fire.”
Miles raised a brow.
“That sounds… smoky.”
“Debilitating,”
I corrected.
“But iconic.”
Cecilia beamed.
“Told you. It’s like breakfast, therapy, and sin all in one glass.”
I leaned back, drink in hand, and looked between the two of them. Somehow, I felt like I’d been dropped into a Sofia Coppola brunch scene—with a touch more gay trauma and a splash more vodka.
“So, what’s on the menu?”
I asked, eyeing Miles as he plated something on bone-white china with an edible flower tucked to the side like it paid rent there.
He didn’t answer yet, but his smirk said: something that’ll haunt your dreams in the best way.
And goddamn, I believed him.
By the time I finished the Bloody Mary, I was somewhere between a light buzz and a religious awakening. I had a full-on Ray of Light Madonna moment—complete with existential clarity. It was like my taste buds had taken a spa vacation in Tuscany and refused to return to the real world. Honestly, if Miles had handed me divorce papers immediately after that drink, I would’ve signed them with a lipstick pen and asked for joint custody of the vodka.
Miles, of course, was already wiping down the quartz countertop with a microfiber cloth. He turned to me and Cecilia with that unbothered, pristine air he always seemed to float on.
“If you two don’t mind,”
he said, slipping off his apron with one smooth, practiced motion, “breakfast is ready. Come join me out on the deck.”
Cecilia stood immediately, as if summoned by a god and a flute of champagne. “Oh good,”
she cooed, adjusting her green caftan and gliding toward the sliding glass doors.
“I was starting to worry you’d tease us with the smell and serve us air and judgment.”
I stood to follow her, still sipping the last inch of tomato-vodka heaven like I was rationing it during a war.
“After that Bloody Mary, I’ll follow you anywhere,”
I mumbled, trailing behind Cecilia as she pushed through the sliding doors with a dramatic sweep of silk and motherly mischief.
And then—bam.
I stopped.
I actually stopped.
The deck was…obscene.
Not in a naked-men-wrestling-in-mud kind of way. No, this was domestic obscenity. Tablescaped to hell and back. An orgasm of aesthetic excess. A visual buffet that looked like the Barefoot Contessa had been possessed by a French patisserie ghost and then partnered with Martha Stewart after four bellinis.
The long wooden table—driftwood gray, naturally—was dressed in a crisp ivory linen runner, draped just enough to look like it accidentally fell into place like that. As if. At the center was a massive bouquet of pale yellow peonies and wildflowers in a sea glass-blue ceramic vase that looked “thrifted”
in a way that meant it cost $180 at a Rehoboth Avenue artisanal boutique with one parking spot.
Each place setting had its own mini cutting board charger. Not plates—cutting boards. The plates themselves were hand-thrown ceramic, pale cream with imperfect scalloped edges, like the pottery version of a rich girl’s beach waves. Cloth napkins were folded with military precision and pinned with eucalyptus sprigs tied in twine. Each mimosa glass had a thinly sliced blood orange perched on the rim, looking so sultry I almost asked it for its number.
“Oh my God,”
I muttered, glancing at Cecilia like I’d been slapped with a folded-up Architectural Digest magazine.
Cecilia just gave a hum of satisfaction and slid into her chair like this level of elegance was her default setting.
“He does know how to set a table,”
she said, sipping from her champagne like she was judging the sunrise.
“Set a table?”
I whispered, dragging my feet forward.
“This looks like a Pinterest board had sex with a cookbook and this is the gay little brunch baby they made.”
Miles appeared with a tray, his expression calm and his movements surgical. I couldn’t even speak. I just watched him move as he began placing the dishes—his flawless, OCD-level dishes—onto the table with the kind of reverence usually reserved for organ donations.
First came the French omelets. Light, yellow, silky—not fluffy, silky—folded with just the faintest sheen of butter, like each one had been whispered to in French before landing on the plate. No toppings, just eggs, cream, butter, and technique. Offensive levels of skill.
Next: herbed potatoes, browned within an inch of their crispy lives, speckled with rosemary and thyme. You could hear the crunch from the tray hitting the wood. Then came strips of prosciutto—crisped, not fried, not greasy, crisped—like bacon’s fancy cousin who vacations in Capri and never talks to you at family reunions.
Then: a glass bowl of fruit salad so stupidly gorgeous I almost wanted to cry. Chunks of pineapple, watermelon, and berries, all kissed with lime zest and a whisper of mint.
Mini croissants? Check. They were warmed to perfection. Their layers flaked when I breathed too close to them. Like how dare you look at me with hunger.
And, of course, the mimosas. There were two kinds—classic and blood orange. Bothe were served in champagne flutes that were beyond thin. Each one sparkled in the sunlight like it had been filtered by heaven.
I blinked twice. Then looked at Miles.
“You—what—you did all this this morning? In just one hour?”
Miles gave a modest shrug.
“It’s just breakfast.”
Just breakfast.
I looked at Cecilia, who was adjusting her napkin and already reaching for a croissant-like she was in the middle of a royal coronation, and this was standard procedure.
“I’d like to formally apologize for every brunch I’ve ever hosted,”
I said, dropping into my chair like a defeated sinner.
“This makes my avocado toast look like prison food.”
Miles arched a brow.
“Avocado toast is prison food.”
I pointed at him.
“That’s offensive to millennials, but I’ll allow it.”
He cracked a rare smile as he took his seat opposite me. Cecilia, of course, was dead center, like the brunch queen she was born to be. The three of us sat there, the soft salt air wafting through the deck rails, sunlight dappling over the spread like it was staged by a lighting crew. The table didn’t just look good—it glowed.
“Now,”
Miles said, unfolding his napkin with the elegance of a Michelin chef-slash-wedding planner.
“Shall we?”
And just like that, we were all seated.
We dug in. Forks clinked, Miles refilled the mimosas, and there was this easy rhythm to everything. Like we’d done this before. Like we were three characters from one of those breezy Netflix original series where everything’s beautiful, queer, and expensive. I could almost hear the saxophone music.
“So,”
I said, pointing my fork at Miles mid-bite, “I think you mentioned you’re just renting this house for a few days? Or is it just one of your lifestyle empire hideaways?”
Miles looked up, slightly bashful.
“Yes. We are renting it from a friend of my mother’s. Like I mentioned during one of your buzzes yesterday, I have a place just ten minutes away. However, I needed a change of scene. Fewer memories of the ex during a weekend retreat. So, I came here to get away and recharge. I have a place in Jersey, too, but this… this is where I can actually breathe.”
“Nice,”
I said, looking around.
“This place is incredible. I’d seriously live here full time if I had more time and less of a career. Of course, I’d have to make peace with being surrounded by seagulls and retiree gays in tank tops.”
“Oh, they’re half the charm,”
Cecilia chimed in, raising her glass.
I laughed, then took another sip of mimosa and leaned on my elbow.
“I’m actually planning to stay here for a bit,”
I said, suddenly aware I’d just… said that out loud.
“Not forever. Just until the media stops clawing at my ass. Jackson and I breaking up turned into this tabloid bonanza. Publicists are screaming. Agents are pretending to cry. One person called it a ‘heartbreaking Hollywood divorce,’ and we weren’t even married.”
Miles raised a brow.
“You’re just waiting it out here?”
“Yup. Let the fire burn out while I sip vodka and avoid TMZ,”
I said.
“Once the smoke clears, I’ll be back in the city, back on set, back to pretending I don’t hate every single photoshoot and script. But I do like it here. Rehoboth. The ocean. The quiet. I could see myself coming back every so often.”
Cecilia nodded thoughtfully.
“It’s a healing place, especially for the soul.”
Miles smiled faintly.
“It is. That’s why I chose to vacation down here, instead of a different beach, knowing what this town can do for you. This trip was meant to be… restorative.”
“You and your mom seem close,”
I said, watching the way they shared that unspoken language between glances.
“It’s… rare. In a good way.”
There was a quiet shift in the energy. Miles sat his fork down.
“She’s the only parent I’ve ever really had,”
he said.
“My dad walked out when I was three. We haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
Cecilia didn’t flinch.
“And thank God for that. He was a selfish and immature man with no backbone. We were better off the moment he vanished.”
There wasn’t bitterness in her voice—just fact. That sort of cool, elegant disdain that only the truly rich and seasoned could master.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be,”
Miles replied, reaching for his water.
“It’s ancient history. Still affects me, though. I guess that’s why I over-plan everything. I like knowing what’s coming and having structure and order. I need to be in control.”
“You?”
I said with mock surprise.
“Control freak? Shocking.”
He gave me a look, but it was playful.
I glanced down at my plate, then back up at both of them.
“I get it,”
I said.
“I cut my parents off years ago. A lot of gambling. Pills. Drinking. Screaming. My mom tried to strangle me once when I came out of the closet. Told me I was already dead to her. Dad didn’t even show up to the funeral when she overdosed.”
There was silence at the table. I just kept going.
“They only called me once I got famous. Acted like none of it happened. Like they didn’t throw me out when I was sixteen. Wanted help with rent. Wanted me to buy them a condo. I blocked the numbers. Didn’t even know my mother had passed until six months after the fact. Haven’t looked back since.”
Cecilia placed a hand over her chest. “My God…”
Miles leaned forward.
“That’s awful, . I’m so sorry.”
I waved them off.
“It’s whatever. I don’t dwell on it. But seeing you two… makes me wonder what it would’ve been like to grow up with even one person who gave a damn. Who knew how to make a Bloody Mary and didn’t throw ceramic ashtrays at your head, you know?”
The silence this time wasn’t heavy. It was understanding.
I looked over at Cecilia.
“You did a good job.”
Cecilia raised her glass in my direction. “I know.”
We all laughed, and for a moment, the world felt… stupidly okay.
I took another bite of my French omelet and grinned.
“This really is good, though. Like, criminally good. If this is what I get every time I show up here, I might never leave.”
Miles didn’t look up, but I caught the corner of his mouth curl just slightly.
And yeah, that made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Full.
And not just from the food.