Miles
I should have guessed something was up the moment Hudson told me to wear something breezy and adventurous. But I didn’t expect this.
We walked together down the long wooden pier, the soles of my flip-flops clapping rhythmically against the planks. The sun was high now—an aggressive noon heat casting sharp reflections off the surface of the Rehoboth Bay. Boats of all shapes and sizes lined the slips. Some were modest sailboats with faded covers and family names etched in cursive. Others were party catamarans, big enough for a group of twelve to take some selfies and pretend they were on an episode of Below Deck. But none of them—none—looked like the one at the very end of the dock.
It was… spectacular.
A sleek, streamlined mid-sized flybridge motor yacht, easily in the 60-foot range, glistened in the sun like it had just rolled off the showroom floor and directly into the bay. Its hull was a crisp, high-gloss white that practically sparkled, with polished chrome railings, shaded windows that wrapped around the cabin, and the kind of aerodynamic profile that screamed quiet wealth. Not ostentatious. Not tacky. Tasteful wealth. The kind of boat owned by people who summered in the Hamptons and knew the difference between taupe and greige.
It was a standout—not just in size, but in presence. A floating sculpture of opulence.
I stopped in my tracks. “Hudson…”
I turned to him.
“Is this…?”
He grinned, eyes glinting behind those obnoxiously perfect aviators.
“Surprise.”
As if on cue, a man stepped out from the cabin wearing a crisp navy polo, white boat shoes, and a cap that read Captain Leo. I kid you not. Behind him followed three men dressed in black chef’s coats, carrying trays and cases marked with food service labels.
My mouth parted slightly, but words didn’t come.
“You managed all of this in two hours?”
I finally asked, gesturing at the boat like I was trying to point out a UFO no one else seemed fazed by.
Hudson shrugged.
“Well, I had help from a few of my assistants,”
he said casually.
“They’re monsters when I throw money at them. And promises of PTO.”
“I… don’t know what to say.”
He gave me a soft nudge.
“Say, ‘thank you, Hudson, you reckless genius.’ Or you can just get your bougie ass on the boat.”
I did exactly that.
Captain Leo gave a courteous nod as I stepped onto the gangway, his tone warm and professional.
“Welcome aboard, gentlemen. We’ll be cruising out into the open bay, past Dewey, toward Indian River Inlet. Calm conditions today—ideal for a relaxing ride.”
I followed Hudson past the lower salon, which had gleaming wood floors, plush cream leather seating, and stainless steel accents. Of course, it had a flat-screen. Of course, it had mood lighting. I barely had time to blink before he guided me up the polished staircase to the flybridge.
And that—that—was the moment I had to consciously remind myself to keep breathing.
A table for two sat under the shade of a cream canopy, set with a crisp white tablecloth, sparkling stemware, and pale blue plates that matched my shirt. Finger foods were arranged on mirrored trays: neat rows of chilled shrimp with remoulade, marinated olives, heirloom tomato bruschetta, and an array of delicate tea sandwiches. A full charcuterie spread dominated the center—prosciutto, soppressata, paper-thin slices of jamón ibérico, cornichons, fig jam, brie, blue, manchego, and at least three cheeses I couldn’t name without a sommelier certification.
Caviar was on display, too, in little crystal ramekins on shaved ice. Hudson raised an eyebrow at me.
“No bumps. I said no caviar bumps. You may use a blini with crème fra?che. We’re civilized people here.”
I choked back a laugh.
“I can’t believe you did all this just for me.”
He walked over to an ice bucket nestled against the railing and pulled out a chilled bottle of champagne. Something French. Something terrifyingly expensive. He popped it with one clean twist of the wrist—pop—and it didn’t even foam over. A neat, elegant hiss of celebration.
“Cheers to Rehoboth Beach,”
he said, pouring two flutes like we were in a music video.
I took the glass, still half-convinced I was hallucinating. “Cheers,”
I replied.
Our glasses clinked. It was light and effortless. The kind of moment that should’ve been carefully scripted by a production assistant and shot at golden hour. But no. It was real. And I was in it.
He took a sip, then leaned on the rail, eyes scanning the horizon.
“Told you to trust me.”
I didn’t reply. Not right away. Because at that very moment, the engines hummed softly beneath our feet. The boat began to ease out of the slip, moving smoothly across the bay like it knew we needed this. Like it had been waiting.
The water was calm. Just a shimmer of movement under a pale blue sky streaked with cottony clouds. The sun danced off the surface like sequins.
And me? I just stood there. Holding a glass of champagne. Watching the shoreline drift away behind us. Wondering how on earth this day became mine, all orchestrated by this beautiful and yet famously reckless actor.
Hudson was right. I did thank him. I just hadn’t said it out loud yet.
The motor purred beneath us, steady and indulgent, slicing through Rehoboth Bay with smooth confidence. I sat across from Hudson on the upper flybridge of the yacht, still in disbelief that this was real life. The water shimmered like a million silver coins scattered beneath the midday sun, little crests catching light like firecrackers. To our left and right, the shoreline curved gracefully, lined with beach homes that looked like they’d been pulled straight from the pages of a coastal design magazine—weathered gray shingles, wraparound porches, and flags fluttering lazily in the breeze.
I could spot a few I recognized from Zillow deep dives, including the one with the copper-roofed turret I had once saved to my dream home folder. Seeing them from the water only made them more delicious—perfectly perched like smug, tanned aristocrats waving politely.
I took another sip of my champagne, the bubbles pricking my nose in the most delightful way.
“Alright,”
I said, gesturing to the decadent spread.
“I have to ask—why are you doing all of this for me?”
Hudson was already reaching for a blini, piling it generously with crème fra?che and roe.
“Consider this an apology for the noise complaint from last night,”
he said with a smirk, his aviators still on, even though we were shaded beneath the flybridge roof.
I rolled my eyes.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,”
he said easily.
“But seriously—this is the least I can do for the man who saved my life, or at least my foot, and then made me breakfast like some bougie domestic gay icon. Actually, there is no like. You really are a bougie domestic gay icon. Duh.”
“Please,”
I muttered.
“You’re being dramatic. It was a minor foot injury and a very basic breakfast.”
Hudson tilted his head, chewing thoughtfully.
“Maybe, but you didn’t have to help me. You could’ve let me stumble home and bleed out dramatically on the deck like a wounded seagull.”
“You would’ve deserved it,”
I deadpanned.
He raised his glass in a toast.
“To deserving seagulls.”
I clinked mine against his, chuckling despite myself. The wind picked up gently, rustling my shirt. I glanced out at the water again—the gentle slosh of the waves against the hull, the cries of distant gulls, the sparkle of the sun dancing on the surface. It was perfect. Almost suspiciously perfect.
“This is so beautiful,”
I said softly.
“I love Rehoboth Beach.”
Hudson nodded, leaning back in his seat.
“Yeah. I guess the subtle charm is starting to grow on me a bit.”
I looked at him over the rim of my champagne glass.
“You guess?”
He laughed, his teeth gleaming.
“Okay, fine. When I was told to lie low in a beach town—and of course, I insisted it be a gay one—I had my sights set on Fire Island or Provincetown. You know, the classics. Thongs, drag queens on tricycles, orgies in the dunes… the usual.”
My eyes widened.
“Oh, lord.”
“But then,”
he continued, unfazed, “my agent-slash-publicist-slash-professional babysitter said I needed somewhere quieter. Calmer. A ‘gentler rehab for your reputation,’ she said. She mentioned Rehoboth Beach, and I was like, what the hell is a Rehoboth? Sounds like a biblical city. But she booked it, and I arrived. And you know what? She was right. It’s… less pressure here. Less cameras. Less screaming fans. Less expectations.”
I nodded slowly.
“That’s exactly why I love it here. It’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also… manageable. Not trying to be anything it’s not.”
He looked at me then—not through me, not past me—but directly at me. There was something disarming about his gaze, even with the sunglasses still on.
“Manageable’s nice, huh?”
“It really is,”
I confirmed.
We sat in silence for a moment, letting the wind and water carry the conversation. The boat coasted along like it had no destination and all the time in the world to get there. I reached for a fig, suddenly aware of how rare this was—peace, spontaneity, an afternoon with no plan and no looming expectation to perform.
Hudson grinned again, that irreverent glimmer in his eye.
“So… still think I’m just a drunk gremlin from a noise complaint?”
I smirked.
“Well, the jury’s still out.”
“Fair,”
he said and leaned back with a satisfied sigh.
“But let the record show: this gremlin charters a damn fine boat.”
I raised my glass once more.
“I’ll drink to that.”
The yacht continued gliding past the inlet homes, their reflections rippling gently across the bay. I caught myself watching Hudson—not just the sharp jawline or the tousled hair that danced in the wind like it had a fan crew—but the way he was surprisingly present. Not on his phone, not posturing. Just… here.
I didn’t know what this was or what it might become.
But for now, here was enough.
We didn’t need to say much as the boat continued along the bay. It was one of those silences that didn’t feel empty—it felt earned. The kind of quiet that draped itself over two people like a soft blanket, warm and intimate. The yacht cut along Rehoboth Bay with the same quiet confidence Hudson often exuded, sending gentle ripples trailing behind us like satin ribbons on water.
I shifted in my seat and gestured toward the long, cushioned sofa behind us.
“Want to move back there?”
I asked, motioning with my glass.
Hudson smirked and raised an eyebrow.
“Was wondering when you’d invite me to sit closer.”
I rolled my eyes, hiding the flush of heat that bloomed beneath my cheekbones.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I just want a better view of the water.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He stood, grabbing the champagne bottle from the bucket with exaggerated flair, and followed me to the rear lounge seating. The sofa wrapped around the back half of the flybridge in a soft U-shape—plush, white, and the kind of luxurious that dared you to spill something on it.
I eased into the cushions, folding one leg underneath me. Hudson poured us both another glass of champagne with a flourish, like a ma?tre d’ at a five-star Parisian brunch. He handed me mine, then sat beside me—close, but not suffocatingly so. Just enough to feel his presence. Just enough to notice the scent of sea salt and cologne on the breeze between us.
Together, we stared out at the sparkling expanse of the bay. The water shimmered like liquid glass, broken only by the gentle waves trailing behind the boat. Sailboats dotted the horizon, their white sails catching the sun like distant prayers.
“I could get used to this,”
I murmured.
Hudson sighed, tilting his head back as the wind played with his hair. “Same.”
There was a lull again. A soft breeze swept over us, cool against the sun-soaked skin of my arms. My shirt billowed slightly as I sipped my drink, and I could feel my nerves simmering somewhere beneath the surface. I didn’t know what I expected, sitting beside a man who had thrown my entire internal compass into disarray. I just knew it wasn’t this—this quiet companionship. This… ease.
Hudson glanced over, swirling his glass, and then set it down in a cup holder beside us.
“You know,”
he began, voice quieter now, more careful, “I did want to also apologize for last night…”
I turned to look at him.
“…for kissing you on the beach abruptly,”
he continued.
“That was pretty fucked up of me, especially after just learning you recently went through a divorce. I should’ve respected—”
But he didn’t get to finish the sentence.
Because at that exact moment, something inside me cracked open. Not in a bad way—not in a broken, splintered way. It was like pressure being released from a champagne bottle. Sudden, yes. But necessary. And maybe long overdue.
Before I even fully registered it, I leaned in.
My hand found his cheek. Soft stubble brushed against my palm, and before he could so much as blink, my lips were on his.
The kiss was immediate, warm, breath-stealing. It didn’t ask for permission and didn’t need one. It didn’t tiptoe around etiquette or good timing or any of the thousand stupid reasons I usually used to keep control. It just… happened.
His mouth responded like it had been waiting. I felt his hand slide to my waist, steady but not forceful. His lips parted slightly, and my pulse stuttered as our mouths moved in sync—exploratory, heady, and utterly charged.
There was a salty sweetness on his tongue, hints of champagne and wind, and something distinctly Hudson. His cologne curled into my lungs, a grounding scent in a moment that felt like I was about to float away completely.
When we finally parted—reluctantly, slowly—our foreheads hovered near each other’s. I was breathless. His eyes searched mine behind his aviators, and then he pulled them off entirely, tucking them in his shirt collar like it was nothing.
“Wow…”
he said, blinking like he wasn’t sure we were still on a boat.
“I may have to come back to Rehoboth Beach more often.”
I laughed, breath catching in my throat. I could still feel the outline of his lips on mine, as if the kiss had left behind a signature no tide could erase.
I didn’t know what to say. So, I sipped my champagne, cheeks flaming.
“Sorry,”
I whispered, though I wasn’t sure why.
“That was…”
“Perfect,”
he finished for me.
“Unexpected. But perfect.”
I bit my bottom lip, smiling shyly.
“You caught me at a weak moment.”
“Babe, I’ve seen you scrub baseboards in linen pants in one of your life hack videos. You don’t have weak moments.”
I shook my head.
“You really are the worst.”
“And yet, you kissed me.”
I gave him a little nudge with my elbow, but I couldn’t stop smiling.
As the yacht hummed along, trailing wake behind it, I turned back toward the water, letting the view settle in my chest like a warm meal. I thought of what my mother had said yesterday—how maybe I needed to diverge from the script once in a while. That maybe I’d spent my whole life following the recipe exactly as it was written.
I’d always believed in order. In structure. In predictability.
But this?
This was something else.
This was the culinary equivalent of tossing out the measuring cups, adding a splash of frenzy, and stirring with a reckless kind of glee. And damn if it didn’t taste like freedom.
I’d finally improvised.
And the result?
It wasn’t just edible—it was unforgettable.