Hudson
I was mid-story about the time I got kicked out of a Cannes afterparty for spilling a tray of lobster croquettes on Cate Blanchett’s Louboutins when I heard it.
A soft, distinct click from upstairs.
Both Cecilia and I froze like two misbehaving kids caught in the liquor cabinet.
It wasn’t the HVAC.
It wasn’t a ghost.
It was a door.
And unless Topper had figured out how to operate a brushed nickel doorknob with his little paws, that meant one thing.
Miles.
Cecilia set her wineglass down on the white kitchen island so slowly and carefully. It was like watching an artifact being placed in the Louvre.
We listened.
Silence.
Then, the gentle pad of socked footsteps. Calm. Even. Not the frantic, nervous shuffle I was expecting. Not the stompy-angry cadence of a man ready to yell at me for dragging him into tabloid hell.
And then—like some kind of gay wraith emerging from his fortress of solitude—Miles appeared.
And holy hell, he looked… flawless.
Not just I’ve been crying for hours but pulled myself together flawless. No. I mean, full-on magazine cover, 11:00 PM martini hour at the Carlyle Hotel flawless. Crisp oxford shirt. Pressed trousers. A belt that probably cost more than my last PR retainer. His hair was combed back, his skin suspiciously dewy, and his expression?
Neutral.
Not chipper. Not furious. Just… straight-up neutral.
Like a bank teller. Or an assassin.
He walked in like he’d just returned from pilates instead of a public meltdown.
“Evening,”
he said simply, as if we hadn’t all just been metaphorically (and maybe literally) fetal a few hours ago.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
Cecilia opened her mouth, then shut it, clearly debating whether this was a trap.
“Miles,”
she began cautiously. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,”
he said, brushing past her on his way to the pantry.
“I just needed a moment to reset. All is well.”
I blinked.
“Did… did someone microdose you? Or am I having a stroke?”
He didn’t answer, but reached into a cabinet and pulled out three different salts—Himalayan pink, flaky sea salt in a tin, and something that looked like it had come from a volcanic crater in Iceland.
I watched him, mildly horrified and 94% turned on.
Cecilia recovered faster.
“Darling, you really don’t have to cook tonight. We can go out, or I can make something simple—”
“No, no. I want to.”
He turned, still unreadable, and gave us both a polite smile.
“I think we’ve all had quite the day. A nice dinner might help reset the energy.”
Reset the energy? Who was this man?
Was this Miles 2.0? Post-scandal Miles? Divorce-Denial-Dinner-Party Miles?
“Uh…”
I glanced at Cecilia, hoping she could help me make sense of all this.
“You sure you don’t want help, darling?”
she asked.
He shook his head and began arranging ingredients like a surgeon prepping for a heart transplant. Fresh bay leaves, lemons, a white ceramic ramekin of garlic confit. A fennel bulb appeared out of nowhere. A fish was being defrosted in the sink like it had been waiting for this exact dramatic entrance.
“I’d actually prefer the kitchen to myself right now,”
Miles said, voice clipped but polite.
“Not in a rude way. I just need… the space.”
His eyes flicked up briefly, landing on me. Not cold. Not warm. Just… deliberate.
Cecilia, to her credit, didn’t argue. She placed her napkin down like she was leaving a country club brunch.
“Of course, sweetheart. We’ll just step out onto the deck and give you a bit of room.”
“Thank you,”
Miles said, already turning to dice herbs like he was in a Michelin-star audition.
I stood there for a second too long, unsure if I should say something. Apologize again? Offer a hug? Ask if he’d been possessed by the ghost of a 1950s hostess?
But then Miles turned his back to us and began whisking something with terrifying precision. The conversation was over.
Cecilia grabbed a bottle of white wine from the chiller before gently tugging my sleeve.
“Come, . Let’s give the man his stage.”
As I followed her toward the glass doors leading outside to the deck, I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder one more time.
Miles, bathed in the golden wash of the pendant lights, was utterly in his element—cool, composed, a vision of curated domestic calm.
But even from this angle, I could tell.
His hands were shaking.
I didn’t even get a chance to argue. One second, I was standing in front of the kitchen island like a confused labradoodle who accidentally wandered into a gourmet cooking show, and the next—Cecilia had her hand on my back, nudging me toward the sliding doors like she was shooing me out of a salon for dripping sand on the marble floors.
“Come on,”
she whispered, like we were escaping a nuclear test zone.
“He’s gone into Organization and Cooking Frenzy Mode. Best not to be anywhere near the impact zone.”
I furrowed my brow.
“Is that… like a medical thing?”
She laughed, a soft, champagne-tinged chuckle, as she pulled the glass door open with her manicured hand and gestured dramatically toward the upper deck like I was being exiled from Eden.
“It’s very much a Miles thing. You’ll learn. Or be steamrolled.”
I gave one last glance back at Miles—now elbow-deep in asparagus spears, plating herbs like they were rare butterfly specimens. He had a thin kitchen towel tucked into his waistband like a chef in a French rom-com and the most intense look on his face. Not angry. Not sad. Just… possessed. Like Ina Garten had invited Satan into her soul and decided to host a deathmatch dinner party.
The moment we hit the upper deck, the salty air slapped me like it was trying to knock some sense into me. The wind tugged gently at Cecilia’s caftan, which she changed to be ivory this evening, with a golden peacock motif that shimmered whenever she turned.
She slid into one of the deck chairs with practiced elegance and sighed as she poured herself another glass of white wine from the bottle, before placing it in an ice bucket by her side.
“Organization and Cooking Frenzy Mode?”
I asked, plopping down beside her and kicking my feet up on the ottoman like I owned the damn place.
Cecilia swirled her wine and smirked.
“Oh, yes. It’s like a nesting ritual. When things feel too out of control, Miles has this… switch. He cooks, organizes, and wipes down surfaces that already sparkle. It’s not just about food—it’s how he restores order to the universe. You could tell him the Pope was on fire, and he’d respond by marinating a pork loin.”
I blinked.
“That’s either deeply unsettling or the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Cecilia raised her glass.
“I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear you call my son sexy. But I understand the sentiment. Cheers, to order restored.”
We clinked glasses—me with a vodka soda I had grabbed en route to the deck from the mini-fridge because I’m classy like that—and stared out at the ocean like a couple of war generals watching the battlefield from a balcony.
Below us, the horizon glowed a dusty peach, and a seagull screamed overhead like someone had insulted its mother. Miles was in the kitchen, restoring balance to his universe one blanched green bean at a time. Meanwhile, Cecilia and I were drinking and gossiping like two spoiled aunts at a destination funeral.
I leaned back in the chair and gave a long sigh.
“So… this is good, then? Him going all Ratatouille down there?”
“Oh, this is wonderful,”
she said, eyes twinkling.
“It means he’s come through the worst of it. When he goes silent, that’s when I worry. When he starts cooking, prepping, and pretending he’s hosting a royal banquet—then I know my Miles is back.”
I chuckled and took a sip.
“He really is a whole different breed.”
Cecilia glanced sideways at me, her red lips curled in that sharp little smile that said she was about to serve truth on a silver platter.
“And yet you haven’t run for the hills.”
I shrugged, swirling the ice in my drink.
“I like complicated.”
“Oh, darling,”
she said, leaning forward just slightly.
“Complicated doesn’t begin to cover it. He’s high-maintenance and emotionally bulletproof until he isn’t. A master of control, order, and the perfect dinner party. But he’s also brilliant. Loyal. Devastatingly intuitive. And underneath all that? He’s soft. Softer than he’ll ever let most people see.”
“Yeah,”
I muttered.
“I got that.”
“But…”
she began.
“He has certainly let you see it. And he’s only known you for a weekend…”
There was a beat of silence between us. Not awkward. Just… understanding.
I raised my glass again.
“To Frenzy Mode.”
Cecilia clinked hers against mine and added with a wink, “To the poor fool who tries to interrupt him mid-risotto.”
We both laughed, genuinely this time.
And for a moment, up on that deck, watching the sea shimmer in the distance and feeling the hum of something calm settling into the air, I forgot about the scandal. The headlines. The noise.
Downstairs, a perfectionist was reclaiming his peace with garlic and thyme.
Up here, I had a front-row seat to a masterclass in resilience—and the woman who raised it.
I leaned back, let the salty breeze ruffle my hair, and took another sip.
Let this weekend commence… preferably with fewer scandals, more carbs, and maybe—just maybe—one night where nobody cries into a sateen napkin.