Hudson
I was still buzzing—like actual butterflies-in-the-gut, post-coital-glow, stupid-happy buzzing—from that kiss with Miles. One kiss. One really fucking perfect kiss, and suddenly I’m out here acting like I just got pinned by the quarterback after prom.
I sprawled out across the massive white sectional in my living room, feet up, grinning like an idiot. The salty breeze rolled in through the open sliding glass doors, and for once, it didn’t smell like rotting kelp and drunk gays. It smelled like hope. Or maybe just sunscreen and whatever lingering skunk weed the gays at the party the other night were smoking in my house. Hard to say.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like this. Not since Jackson Pierce, and we all know how that ended—me screaming at a paparazzo in Mykonos wearing nothing but Versace swim trunks and a bellini in hand.
But this was different.
Miles wasn’t drama. He was… calm. Structured. He made a goddamn herb crust for breakfast and garnished the Bloody Mary with something pickled and poetic. He was everything I wasn’t, and that—that—was the sexiest thing in the world.
I shuffled to the bar because, obviously, I needed to mark the moment with a drink. Something celebratory. Something absurd.
I went for something not usually up my alley: two fingers of gin, a splash of elderflower liqueur, muddled basil, a whisper of grapefruit bitters, and three cucumber slices—because hydration matters. I shook the hell out of it until my arms burned like I’d done actual cardio (ewww), then strained it into a cut-crystal coupe glass, rimmed in Tajín. I topped it with a single edible flower, because why not?
I took a sip.
“Oh, you dirty little herbal seductress,”
I muttered to the glass.
“You get me.”
Then I downed it.
Time to shower. If I was about to dine with the gay Martha Stewart himself, I wasn’t showing up in joggers and a wrinkled linen shirt like some hungover trust fund case. No. If Miles was going to roast a duck or whip up some tragically romantic risotto, I was going to bring the heat.
I peeled off my clothes—dropping each item like I was the only contestant in a striptease contest at a yacht club—and cranked the shower until the steam curled like sex against the glass. I lathered up with my Aesop body cleanser (don’t judge me, it smells like cedar and ambition), then shaved, exfoliated, moisturized, and cologned like I was heading to the damn Emmys.
By the time I stood in front of my full-length mirror, the outfit laid out before me looked like it belonged to someone dangerous. Or at least someone who tipped well and knew how to kiss without slobbering.
Midnight black tuxedo pants, slim and crisp, tailored within an inch of their life. A deep navy velvet dinner jacket—double-breasted, peak lapel, cut from some Italian fabric that probably cost more than my publicist’s last therapy session. A pressed white dress shirt with a subtle woven texture and a black silk bow tie I tied myself because clip-ons are for cowards.
Then, the pièce de résistance: a pair of glossy black loafers with gold hardware, no socks, because standards, and a single spritz of my favorite Tom Ford scent at the neck and wrists. Just enough to leave a trail.
I stared at myself.
Debonair.
Dashing.
Dramatic in the best way.
“ fucking Knight,”
I whispered to the mirror, smirking.
“Tonight, you dine like a man reborn.”
I slipped my sunglasses into my breast pocket because, let’s be real, I’d need them to watch the sunset over Miles’ perfectly plated main course—and grabbed my keys.
Dinner with Miles Whitaker. I didn’t know if it would end with dessert or disaster, but for once, I didn’t care.
I just wanted to see what he’d make next.
Just as I was adjusting the cuff of my dinner jacket, I heard the shrill ringtone I’d only assigned to Satan’s executive assistant: Celeste Sterling, my agent.
I sighed and rolled my eyes, already bracing myself for the incoming verbal slap.
“Tell me you’re calling to compliment my bone structure,”
I said as I answered, admiring my reflection in the hallway mirror and giving myself a little wink.
“You absolute fucking idiot!”
she screeched.
And there it was. No hi. No how’s the weather? Just full nuclear detonation.
“I’m gonna go ahead and assume this isn’t about the artisanal candle line I’ve been pretending to work on,”
I muttered.
“, what the hell did I say? You were supposed to lie low. LIE. LOW. Not get photographed playing tongue Twister with some gay beach-town Stepford wife knockoff!”
“Okay, first of all, ouch. Second of all, he’s not a knockoff. He’s the real deal. The original. He probably came out of the womb organizing swaddling cloths by color palette.”
“Oh my god!”
Celester groaned so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear.
“Do you have any idea how bad this looks? You’re at The Top of the Pines laughing and clinking glasses like you’re auditioning for a gay remake of Notting Hill, and then—then—there’s the blurry photo of you two kissing on a boat like some damn Nicholas Sparks novel got hijacked by TMZ!”
“First of all, I’d pay to see that movie,” I said.
“. This. Is. Serious.”
I sat down on the velvet bench in my dressing hallway, running a hand through my now flawlessly styled hair, and exhaled.
“Celeste, relax. He’s getting divorced. It’s not a big deal.”
She laughed. But it was that cold, slow, sarcastic laugh she used right before firing interns.
“Oh, really? Is the divorce official? Is it public? Did he issue a press release I missed while I was busy not dying of a stress-induced aneurysm?”
I froze.
Shit.
“No,”
I admitted.
“It’s… private. He hasn’t said anything publicly.”
“Then congratulations,”
she snapped.
“You just soft-launched a scandal. The world thinks you seduced some perfect husband away from his vanilla life and lured him into your hot tub of moral decay.”
“I don’t even own a hot tub,”
I grumbled, although now that I think about it, that’s completely fucking absurd. I made a mental note to make sure my assistants got me one in all of my houses after this call. How could I not have a single one?
“Well, the internet thinks you do. And now it thinks you’re a cheater. Or worse, a homewrecker with six-pack abs.”
I rubbed my forehead, suddenly aware of how tight my dinner jacket felt against my chest.
“Come on. It’s not like I planned any of this. I wasn’t expecting to meet someone like him. I like him. A lot. I’m not gonna ghost him because the optics are bad.”
“I’m not asking you to ghost him. I’m asking you to fix this. You need to get him to go public. Make a statement. Tell the world he’s already been separated and divorced. That you’re not a side piece.”
“Jesus,”
I said.
“You really think I’m gonna push him into a press release the night of our second—maybe first date? He’s a private person. His life is tidy and controlled. He’s not like us.”
“Exactly,”
Celeste said, exasperated.
“Which is why this is a disaster. He’s never been involved in anything like this. But you? You’ve got a rap sheet of PR nightmares and enough Google results to choke a mainframe.”
I stood up and paced. The sharp tap of my loafers on the marble floors echoed in the hallway.
“Yeah, and I’ve survived all of it. The breakup with Jackson, the drunken award show speech, the time I threw a mimosa at a brunch critic—”
“That was a good throw,”
she admitted, begrudgingly.
“Damn right it was,”
I smirked, but it faded just as fast.
“Look, I can deal with this fallout. I’ve always dealt. But Miles? He doesn’t deserve this. He’s not built for people coming after him online. For strangers telling him he’s a slut because of some leaked photos.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. For once, Celeste was quiet.
“I know you don’t want to hurt him,”
she finally said, her voice softer now.
“But that’s exactly what might happen if this thing spirals. You need to talk to him. NOW!”
Then came the sharp click of her hanging up.
I stood there in my polished shoes and creaseless pants, suddenly feeling like the most overdressed jackass in Delaware.
Because for all the champagne and charm and jokes I’d slung today, I hadn’t thought about what it meant for Miles. I didn’t think about how easily my deranged life could crash into his picture-perfect world and shatter everything he worked so hard to build.
I pulled out my phone again and scrolled through the notifications. The story was spreading like wildfire—cheap digital tabloids, Reddit threads, and plenty of social media trolls doing their usual thing.
“Guess Knight’s finally moved on from Jackson… to married men now?”
“Isn’t that the guy who’s always organizing spice racks on TV? Damn, talk about opposites attract.”
“Imagine cheating on your husband for a walking scandal. Trash attracts trash.”
I winced.
Even I couldn’t snark my way around that one.
I tossed my phone onto the bed and let out a guttural, frustrated sound—half groan, half expletive, fully defeated. I stared at the ceiling like it might offer an answer.
It didn’t.
Instead, all I could think about was Miles. His soft laugh. The way he flushed when I complimented him. The way he kissed me—unexpected, spontaneous, beautiful.
And now he was probably somewhere reading the same headlines, feeling like his entire life was unraveling.
I’d handled a million of my own scandals. But this was the first time I’d ever been scared of dragging someone else into the blast radius.
Not just someone.
Him.
Miles Whitaker. The man who measured flour by the gram and emotions by the teaspoon. The man who made me breakfast while my foot looked like it had lost a bar fight. The man who had absolutely no business getting mixed up in my mess.
And yet… here we were.
I straightened my lapels and looked at myself again in the mirror. Hair sharp. Eyes dark. Outfit worthy of a black-tie gala.
And not a single fucking clue what to do next.
Well.
Maybe it was time to figure it out.
For him.