Hudson
Look, I’ve had a lot of meals in my life. Fancy ones. Michelin-starred ones. Private chef just for the weekend because I hated my boyfriend ones. I’ve had quail's eggs resting on edible flowers, desserts served in glass globes that cost more than a monthly rental in a two-bedroom Upper Manhattan apartment, and once—once—I accidentally ate foam that turned out to be a centerpiece.
But this?
This dinner?
This was a damn spiritual experience.
I don’t even remember what Miles called that lemony fish thing—it was probably something pretentious in Italian, like Branzino alla I’m Better Than You—but the second it hit my tongue, I had a full-body reaction. I’m talking eyes-closed, involuntary moan, sudden belief in the healing power of citrus. I might’ve blacked out briefly.
“This… Miles…”
I said, mouth half-full, gesturing at the plate like I’d just witnessed the second coming of Julia Child.
He didn’t even glance up from buttering a hunk of rosemary focaccia. “Yes?”
“This tastes like if God had a summer home in Sorrento and got bored enough to cook.”
Cecilia laughed like someone had uncorked her.
“Now that’s a review.”
“I’m serious,”
I said, pointing at my wine like it owed me money.
“My chef—hell, all three of them—have never pulled something like this off. They try, but then there’s always some bullshit foam or one sad microgreen. This? This is sorcery. You’re a wizard. Do you have a wand in that knife drawer?”
Miles gave me one of those tight-lipped smiles, like he was simultaneously pleased and annoyed.
“It’s just fish, .”
“It’s an institution.”
He rolled his eyes, but I caught the tiniest smirk tug at the corner of his mouth as he cut into his own fillet. And just like that, the night settled into something soft and golden—one of those perfect dinner party scenes people try to re-create on Pinterest and fail every single time.
Candles flickered. Plates clinked. The ocean hummed nearby like the world’s sexiest white noise machine.
We talked about everything.
Cecilia regaled us with a story about how she once got kicked out of a Napa vineyard for arguing with the sommelier—“He called my palate pedestrian, darling. Pedestrian. I was raised on Chateau Margaux and Catholic guilt”—and Miles tried desperately to keep her on track, which only made her more unhinged and hilarious.
And then, after a dangerously smooth refill of Barolo—real Barolo, none of that Trader Joe’s imposter nonsense—Cecilia turned her head to me, suddenly very still.
“So, …”
she said, the words slow and silk-wrapped, which I immediately recognized as the beginning of an ambush.
“Tell me—what exactly do you think of my son?”
Cecilia was already a few cocktails deep, channeling her inner Moira Rose from Schitt’s Creek on a long weekend. And honestly? Who was I to judge?
Miles choked on a bite of pasta. “Mother!”
“Oh come on, sweetheart. I’m simply making conversation.”
“You’re interrogating,”
Miles accused.
“Tomato, tomahto,”
she said, waving her hand like a jazz flutist.
“ doesn’t mind, do you?”
And honestly? I didn’t.
Miles looked mortified. His cheeks went pink, and he suddenly became very interested in repositioning the tiny ramekin of olives on the center of the table.
But I leaned back in my chair, slung one arm lazily over the side like I was on a therapist’s couch, and grinned.
“Cecilia,”
I said.
“Your son is a walking Architectural Digest article wrapped in tailored cashmere and existential dread. He’s intense. Polished. Terrifying in the way that only people with monogrammed ice buckets can be.”
Miles attempted to intervene. “—”
“I’m not finished,”
I said, holding up a finger.
“But he’s also weirdly kind. Sharp as hell. Endearingly neurotic. Like if Nigella Lawson and a hummingbird had a baby who knew how to make a damn good Negroni.”
Cecilia beamed.
Miles buried his face in his napkin.
“And,”
I added, swirling my wine, “I think he might actually like me. Which is petrifying. Because I’m, you know, me.”
“You’re not so bad,”
Cecilia said with a wink.
“Under all the glitter and scandal.”
“Oh, make no mistake. I am very bad. But I’m trying.”
Miles finally looked up, eyes soft, amused.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, here you are, feeding me like I’m your most manic houseguest.”
“I’ve had worse.”
Cecilia gasped.
“Who? Name names.”
“No,”
Miles said firmly, but now he was laughing, really laughing, the kind that warmed the whole table.
We passed plates, told stories, and refilled wine. At one point, -of-the-past would’ve made a crude joke or hijacked the spotlight with some tabloid-worthy tale, but not tonight.
Tonight, I just wanted to be here. In this moment. With these people.
Cecilia toasted to unexpected pairings, and Miles groaned but clinked glasses anyway. I didn’t say it out loud, but I liked the sound of that.
Unexpected. Yeah, that felt right.
This whole night—hell, this whole weekend—had been nothing but curveballs, and yet, somehow, it all clicked together like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle I didn’t know I’d been missing.
The branzino was nearly gone. The lemony pasta was demolished. I had no idea how many glasses of wine I’d had, but I didn’t care. Miles had already stood to clear some plates before I could object. He moved like clockwork, gracefully, with no wasted effort.
A work of art in motion.
I sat back, plate licked clean, belly full, and heart… oddly lighter.
God help me.
I think I might actually be catching feelings.
And that pasta? Probably didn’t help.
If I ever disappear from the face of the Earth, just know I died doing the unthinkable: drying dishes.
Yep.
Celebrity. Tabloid darling. Professional trainwreck goblin.
Caught red-handed with a dish towel and an attitude.
And what’s worse? I wasn’t even mad about it. Because Miles—Mr. Culinary Cathedral himself—was bustling around the kitchen like a caffeinated cheetah, doing crisis management. It was like watching an Olympic event in domestic perfection. Elbows tight, movements precise, lips pursed in that please-don’t-help-me-you’ll-screw-it-up kind of way.
I loved it. It made me want to cause problems.
“I can handle this,”
he said for the third time, snatching a serving platter from my hands like I’d threatened to lick it clean in front of the Pope.
“I’m sure you can,”
I said, resting against the white Calacatta quartz island.
“But it’s kinda hot watching you scrub that pan like it insulted your soufflé.”
He shot me a look. One of those devastatingly mild, eyebrow-arched expressions that could probably be used to discipline a room of feral children.
“, you’re going to knock something over,”
was all he said—simple, pointed.
And damn him for it. He really was a shady queen—even if it wasn’t intentional.. It was just subtle enough to call out my clumsiness and my current blood-alcohol level, but delivered in that sly, innocent tone that left you no real ground to push back. Especially not me—with a stitched-up foot and zero balance to stand on, figuratively or otherwise.
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Hell, it might be the last if you keep letting me linger unsupervised,”
I replied.
He huffed and turned toward the sink, and I took the opportunity to slide behind him, my hips barely grazing his as I reached for a dish towel.
“Don’t,”
he practically commanded.
“What? I’m helping.”
“No, you’re pretending to help while making innuendos.”
“That’s growth, baby,”
I replied.
“Mmm,”
he said flatly, not even turning around.
I wiped the last water-glossed plate and set it neatly on the drying rack beside him, then leaned my back against the counter like I had something important to say. Which, for once, I actually did.
“So,”
I said slowly, arms folded.
“Wanna go off script again?”
He didn’t turn. Just kept rinsing silverware like it was his last mission before retirement.
“Miles?”
A beat.
Then he looked over his shoulder, soap bubbles trailing down his wrist like a goddamn cleaning product commercial.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s your last night in this Rehoboth fantasy you meticulously constructed. Why not end it with a bang?”
He dried his hands, narrowed his eyes, and gave me a look that could sterilize cutlery.
“What are you suggesting?”
I smirked.
“Diego’s.”
The kitchen went silent.
Not quiet. Silent.
Like the air just collectively sucked its breath back in and screamed, YOU DID NOT JUST SAY THAT.
Miles blinked. Then he tilted his head like a confused flamingo.
“You want me to go to Diego’s?”
“Yup,” I nodded.
“The gay nightclub?”
“Yup,”
I nodded again, but with more force this time.
“That Diego’s?
“The very one.”
He just stared at me.
Then he put the dishrag down with the caution of a bomb technician.
“. Be serious.”
“I am serious,”
I said, arms still crossed, eyes gleaming like a gremlin at midnight.
“Think about it. The weekend’s been chaos, yes. But it’s been fun chaos. Minus the whole career-implosion-maybe-happening situation.”
“Oh, minus that,”
he deadpanned. “Sure.”
“You’re divorced now. Publicly. The scandal’s old news. You dropped that video, and people ate it up. Adored you. You could stab me with a cake knife and they’d still call you elegant.”
“That’s not funny.”
“A little funny,”
I countered.
He turned away, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. A battle of wills was happening on that perfectly symmetrical face, and I was betting on the chaos gremlin winning.
“Miles,”
I said more gently, stepping beside him again.
“Look, I get it. This—”
I waved at the air, “—this whole thing? It’s not your usual scene. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe the whole point is to go off-script once in a while. To feel messy. Loud. Unplanned. Alive.”
He looked at me for a long time.
Then: “You do realize I’d be photographed the moment we step foot inside, especially with you,” he said.
I shrugged.
“And? What are they gonna say? Miles Whitaker goes dancing with Knight and shirtless gays post-divorce? Sounds like healing to me.”
“You are infuriating.”
“And you are delicious when you’re flustered. Which, by the way, is always.”
He exhaled through his nose and walked over to the fridge to refill his glass of chilled rosé. I waited. Patient. Smug. Just the right amount of annoying.
He sipped.
Then sighed.
Then—finally—he looked at me with a spark of surrender behind his eyes.
“Fine,”
he said.
“But we’re leaving before 10:30 PM.”
I cackled. Actually cackled.
“Oh, sweetie. Absolutely not. No one even arrives before eleven.”
“Eleven?!”
he gasped.
“Yes. That’s when it gets packed and turned into a real summer dance party. It’s a whole thing.”
“Eleven is late.”
“Eleven is when the gays rise like nocturnal glitter demons. You’ll survive. I’ll even protect you from getting humped by a Chad in mesh.”
He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“This is a mistake.”
“Maybe,”
I said, already plotting in my head the most obnoxiously sequined shirt I owned.
“But it’ll be the hottest mistake you’ve ever made.”
He shook his head, muttering something about poor decisions and bad influences, but I caught the ghost of a smile flicker behind his glass as he turned back toward the sink.
And in that moment, I knew I had him.
Miles Whitaker, Gay Martha Stewart, was going to Diego’s.
Saint Judy Garland, watch over us.