Hudson
I’ll admit it—I was feeling myself.
Not in the “take a selfie with my shirt off and post it with a pseudo-deep caption about resilience”
kind of way (though let’s be real, I’ve done that), but in the genuine, oh-my-god-I-just-had-a-real-human-experience kind of way. It was disgusting. Like, emotional intimacy? On a boat? Who the hell was I becoming?
The yacht eased back into the dock at Rehoboth Bay Marina like it had just completed a luxury commercial for rosé and serotonin. I stood from the cushioned flybridge seat, still buzzed on champagne and whatever chemical reaction happens in your bloodstream after someone like Miles Whitaker makes out with you like you’re the last damn man on Earth.
Miles was smiling softly beside me, cheeks flushed, lips still slightly pink from where I’d tasted him. His posture screamed post-kiss confusion—he was still composing himself, dusting off that perfectly curated exterior like he couldn’t believe he’d just kissed someone spontaneously. I wanted to bottle that moment and drink it straight like scotch.
The captain gave us a curt nod as we descended the gangplank.
“Thanks for everything, Captain Leo,”
I said, tossing him a folded tip that could pay for a semester of college in some countries.
“You were smoother than the guy driving my getaway car in Nice.”
Captain Leo smirked, clearly used to this level of eccentric bullshit.
“Glad you enjoyed it, Mr. Knight.”
“I’m not dead, so yeah, successful voyage,”
I replied, already sliding my sunglasses back on like a hungover Bond villain.
Three staffers—chefs or chefs’ hot cousins, I don’t know—exited the galley behind us, carrying trays and linens. One of them winked at me. Miles didn’t notice, thankfully. Not that I was interested—no one else had that goddamn coastal-organizer-in-Loro-Piana energy like Miles did—but I was trying not to look like a slut for once. Growth.
We stepped off the dock, my loafers clicking on the wooden planks, and made our way toward my convertible parked under the shaded lot, still gleaming like the obnoxiously rich person’s toy that it was. Miles fell into step beside me, and for once, he didn’t look like he was trying to keep six inches of emotional buffer space between us. We walked shoulder to shoulder. I could smell the salt on his skin.
Still no words. Just that warm, post-kiss silence. The kind that hums instead of hollers. I wasn’t going to ruin it with my usual verbal diarrhea. Not yet.
I opened the passenger door for him—don’t get used to it—and he slipped in with a quiet, “Thanks.”
“No problem,”
I said, closing the door with a dramatic flourish.
I slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and peeled out of the lot with just enough tire screech to remind people I wasn’t entirely domesticated. The top was down, of course. Miles’ hair whipped lightly in the wind, his eyes hidden behind tortoise-shell shades. My arm rested on the steering wheel like I’d been born for this—rich guy rides down Coastal Highway with a handsome man and a secret smile.
We didn’t talk much on the way back to Ocean Drive. Didn’t have to. He kept stealing glances at me when he thought I wouldn’t notice, and I kept pretending I wasn’t clocking every single damn one of them.
The radio was low, playing something soft and vaguely jazzy, which made me feel like I was driving him home from prom in a Wes Anderson version of Call Me By Your Name. I should’ve been smug. I should’ve made a joke. But truth be told, I was just content. Like, dangerously content. That’s not normal for me.
My mind wandered as we hit the quiet neighborhoods, edging back toward the shore. Was that a date? Did we just go on a fucking date? It had the hallmarks: surprise plans, gourmet food, champagne, a passionate kiss with tongue, and implied feelings. I mean, yeah—I’ve had stranger dates in Miami that ended with less clothing and more litigation, but this… this felt different.
I pulled up to his house—the perfect blue-and-beige stunner with hydrangeas probably hand-massaged by angels—and put the car in park. The engine purred, then quieted. We sat there for a second.
Miles turned to me, hesitant.
“Thank you again. That was…”
“I know,”
I said, cutting him off.
“I’m insufferably charming.”
He laughed genuinely and reached for the door handle—but paused.
“You know,”
he said, glancing down at his phone, “I don’t actually have your number.”
“Oh, are we done DMing like middle schoolers?” I teased.
He handed me his phone. I typed in my number, complete with a skull emoji at the end, because God forbid I do anything mature. Then I pinged myself a text from it so I could have his, too.
“There,”
I said, handing it back.
“Now you can call me next time you want to kiss someone erratic in designer sunglasses.”
“Tempting,”
he replied, cheek twitching in that way that meant he was trying not to smile too wide.
He opened the door, stepped out, and leaned back in just before shutting it.
“I’ll see you later?”
“You better,”
I said.
“Don’t make me come back with another yacht.”
He shook his head, shut the door, and walked toward his front steps. Topper barked excitedly through the window.
I sat there for a second longer, watching him disappear inside.
Then I leaned back in my seat, let out a long exhale, and muttered, “What the hell is happening to me?”
Because yeah. That was a date.
And I wanted another.
I decided to get out and watch as Miles walked towards his beach house. I leaned against the side of my convertible like I was in a damn cologne commercial—wind tousling my hair just enough, aviators hanging off the bridge of my nose, and a stupid, satisfied grin plastered across my face like I just got lucky in a French film.
Which, by the way, I sort of did.
However, I didn’t want the moment to end. As much as I should have just gone back to my house then and there, I could not bring myself to end this date just yet. I still wanted more of him.
“So,”
I said, dragging the word out like I had all the time in the world.
“What are you up to tonight? Reorganizing your throw pillow collection alphabetically by texture?”
Miles chuckled, turning back around in the driveway to face me.
“Nothing that thrilling, actually,”
he said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear.
“I was planning on going to La Fable for dinner, but now, I sort of want to plan on making another fancy dinner and eating it here. Just me, Cecilia, a bottle of wine, and hopefully a breeze that won’t blow my linen napkins into the dune grass.”
He smiled, and I felt it in my chest.
Damn it.
“Sounds wild,”
I smirked.
“Coincidentally, I’m throwing a party tonight too. Thousand guys. All in speedos. It’s SpeedoFest 2025: abs and EDM. We’ve got a shirtless glitter cannon team, drag queens on jet skis, and a taco truck that only serves post-workout protein options.”
Miles snorted, hand over his mouth. “—”
“No, no, don’t interrupt my fantasy,”
I said, holding up a finger.
“There’s a vodka fountain shaped like RuPaul’s head. And six thousand packs of abs as far as the eye can see. The theme is Nipple Tape and Neon Regret.”
Miles was laughing now, shoulders shaking, eyes closed.
“Okay, okay. That’s enough.”
I sighed dramatically.
“Fine. You’re right. I’m lying. There’s no SpeedoFest. Yet. Truth is—I got nothing planned tonight. Not even a sad little frozen pizza and a bottle of tequila, which is saying something.”
He tilted his head, his gaze softening.
“Well… then, would you like to join us for dinner?”
I blinked.
“Like—eat food? Together? Voluntarily?”
“Yes,”
he said, with that small, slightly nervous smile of his.
“Around 7:00?”
“Will it be color-coordinated?” I teased.
“You can bet your RuPaul vodka fountain it will,”
he replied.
“So—are you in?”
I wanted to say something smooth. Something that straddled the line between charming and feral. But what came out was—“I would actually love that.”
His smile deepened, and so help me, I was smitten like a teenager at a Harry Styles concert.
“Perfect,”
he said softly.
“I’ll see you at seven.”
“Looking forward to it.”
He turned to walk toward the front of his house, but I couldn’t let it end there. Not yet. Not when I was still tasting that kiss from earlier—salted by sea air and champagne and some unspoken something I couldn’t quite name.
“Oh—and hey, Miles?”
He paused at the foot of the porch steps, glancing over his shoulder.
“That kiss,”
I said, shoving my hands into my pockets like an idiot.
“It was even better than the caviar.”
His cheeks flushed—rosy pink blooming like a watercolor. He looked down shyly and shook his head.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,”
I said, grinning.
“But you like me that way.”
He didn’t deny it. He just turned back toward the door and waved once before slipping inside.
I stood there for a beat, staring at the closed door like a moron.
Alphabet Boy was finally learning.
I climbed back into the convertible, still tasting salt and sunlight on my lips, and started the engine. As I pulled away from the curb, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. I didn’t look like Knight, the tabloid mess. I didn’t look like a guy recovering from a PR hurricane.
I looked like someone who had something to look forward to.
And dinner at seven with Miles Whitaker? Yeah, that suddenly sounded better than any rager I could’ve thrown.