Miles
The second we pulled up to Diego’s, I knew I had made a mistake.
Or rather—I knew I had made another mistake.
The first was saying yes to Hudson Knight.
The second was letting him anywhere near my calendar.
And now here we were, standing on the threshold of the one place in Rehoboth Beach that looked like Studio 54 had a gay beach baby.
The neon sign out front flickered just once as we stepped through the gate, casting a hot pink glow over Hudson’s face, making him look like a rockstar and/or someone with very recent charges pending.
“This is subtle,”
I muttered, already regretting everything.
Hudson grinned.
“Subtle left hours ago. Buckle up, Alphabet Boy.”
The moment we walked in, the atmosphere swallowed me whole. It was humid with body heat and vibrating with music that felt less like sound and more like something being injected into my bloodstream.
There were three things I noticed instantly:
Everyone here was underdressed and overhydrated with tequila.
The lighting made everyone’s skin look like it was edited in post-production.
Every single person had turned to stare at us.
Like literally.
We hadn’t even made it past the entrance, and already the volume dipped like a movie scene where the hot villain and the misunderstood prep school boy make their big gay debut.
“Smile,”
Hudson whispered, “or at least don’t look like you’re about to faint into a glitter curtain.”
“I feel like I’m being slow-cooked in anxiety.”
“Good. That means it’s working,”
he replied.
He clapped a hand on my back, guiding me forward like a proud coach dragging a show pony into battle.
The space itself was… lively in a totally unapologetic, queer-as-hell kind of way.
On the right, an open-air bar extended out toward a tropical-style patio—think high tables tucked under wide umbrellas, the scent of salt and sunscreen lingering in the night air. Palm fronds swayed lazily above strings of overhead bulbs, each one casting soft golden puddles of light on tanned skin and gleaming cocktails. You could hear laughter rising and falling out there, people dancing on sand-polished wood, like they had nowhere else to be except right here, right now.
Inside, however, was where the real spectacle lived.
The main room was split into sections. One-half of the space was glass-walled and fully open, allowing the breeze to flow in and making the indoor bar blend seamlessly with the patio. Here, sleek stools framed an L-shaped bar that shimmered with condensation and LED underlighting. The bartenders were shirtless—naturally—and effortlessly attractive, tossing bottles with practiced flair as rainbow-colored liquor poured into frosted glasses like a Willy Wonka acid trip. Everything smelled like bergamot, vodka, and a hint of coconut body oil.
Further in, the dance floor was an inferno.
People writhed and spun in strobe-lit abandon, the lights skimming over bodies like searchlights. The DJ, high in his steel booth, worked the dance floor and decks with a focus that could part oceans.
And right near the entrance, behind us, a glowing set of oversized angel wings arched across the wall in rainbow neon lights—hot blue and electric pink feathers shooting outward in a radiant arch. People lined up, preening in front of it, spreading their arms like saints of nightlife.
“That,”
Hudson said, nodding at the wings as we passed, “is where I got a guy’s number last month by pretending I was an actual archangel.”
“That’s horrifying,”
I replied.
“I told him I was cast out of heaven for excessive horniness.”
“I seriously hate you,”
I said, although I could barely keep a straight face while doing so.
“You say that like it’s new.”
I tried to keep walking with confidence, but I was pretty sure I looked like a gay meerkat trying to navigate a shark tank.
People were still staring.
Some in recognition. Some in judgment. Some in open, thirsty curiosity. I caught snippets of murmurs:
“Is that…?”
“Oh my god, it’s him—”
"That’s from the kitchen thing, right?”
"No way, that’s the guy from the beach photo.”
“I guess Hudson and him really are a thing.”
“They looking for a third?”
“Get me in a three-way with them.”
I should’ve turned around and walked out. I should’ve never worn loafers. I should’ve stayed home with Topper and a chilled bottle of rosé and a rerun of Antiques Roadshow.
But instead, I squared my shoulders, followed Hudson, and said the one thing I always said in situations like this:
“I need a drink.”
We beelined to the bar. People parted like we were royalty or about to start a fire. Hudson leaned in close to a bartender with a neon whistle around his neck and ordered two cocktails that had names I didn’t catch but sounded vaguely illegal.
“Relax,”
Hudson said, nudging me as we waited.
“They’ll stop staring, eventually.”
“You said it was over. That people moved on.”
“They did move on. They’re just excited to see their favorite lifestyle influencer standing next to their favorite disaster.”
The bartender slid over two drinks. Mine was pink. It had basil and grapefruit and a little edible flower floating on top like a mocking insult to my masculinity.
But I took a sip.
And it was shockingly divine.
Hudson raised his glass toward me, smiling over the rim with that cocky, perfectly engineered face of his.
“To going off script,” he said.
I clinked my glass to his, eyes scanning the sea of lights and sweaty dancers and the infinite possibilities of disaster swirling in the air around us.
“To hell,”
I said.
“Might as well make it fun.”
I had barely taken two sips of my pink drink when I felt the air shift around us. It was the kind of shift you feel right before someone approaches you—uninvited, unfiltered, and, in this case, utterly shirtless. A chiseled man—tan, sculpted, and glistening like he’d been dipped in hot waxy caramel and filtered through a thirst trap—sauntered up to Hudson like a moth to a neon disaster.
“Excuse me,”
the guy said, flashing a megawatt smile.
“Are you Hudson Knight?”
Hudson set down his drink and smirked.
“I’m afraid so. You caught me in the wild.”
“Can I get a selfie?”
“Sure,”
Hudson replied, with the kind of resigned enthusiasm you’d expect from a man who knew he was doomed to be adored.
They leaned in. Click. Flash. The guy took a second shot just to make sure. Then came the flirting.
“You know,”
the guy said, inching closer, “I always had a thing for the bad boys. Especially the ones with a reputation.”
Hudson raised an eyebrow.
“A reputation for what? Arson or emotional unavailability?”
The guy laughed like it was charming instead of a warning.
Hudson added, “Anyway, I’m off-duty tonight. Try the guy by the bathroom with the electric red chest harness—he’s your type with fewer lawsuits.”
And just like that, the shirtless suitor took the hint and vanished into the crowd, leaving behind a faint trail of mandarin-kissed cologne and broken dreams.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding—maybe a touch of jealousy, or maybe just the second-hand exhaustion of watching Hudson play human bait in public.
I turned back to my drink, but before I could take another sip, I felt a light tap on my shoulder.
“Sorry to bother you,”
a soft voice said.
I turned around and was met with a young guy—probably in his late twenties, with a friendly face—wearing a lemon-patterned button-down that looked like something I might’ve posted about during one of my Limoncello summer season segments. He looked nervous, but excited.
“I follow you,”
he said.
“On Instagram. And I just wanted to say—I made your lemon-thyme roasted chicken last week for a little dinner party, and it was incredible. Like… next-level!”
“Oh,”
I blinked.
“Thank you, that’s—wow! I’m really glad it turned out.”
“My friends were blown away. We paired it with white sangria like you suggested, and, seriously, it was the best meal I’ve ever made.”
“That means the world,”
I told him honestly.
“I always say cooking is the highest form of love. Food and intention, right?”
He beamed.
“Can we get a selfie?”
I obliged, trying to smile without looking too Botoxed, although I’ve never had a needle in my face ever, in my entire life. As for Hudson’s au naturel looks… I had my doubts. As we posed, I held my glass just right for the aesthetic. Click. Another photo for the grid of strangers who somehow knew me as the man who could roast a chicken while monogramming hand towels.
As the fan slipped back into the crowd, Hudson leaned over and said, “You know, I think you might be more famous than I am.”
“Oh, please,”
I muttered, rolling my eyes.
“They follow me for table-scaping tips. You’re the one with an IMDB page.”
“Yeah, and you’re the one with basil-lavender candle collaborations,”
he shot back.
“Which, honestly, I’d rather have.”
I smiled despite myself.
Then he tilted his head toward the crowd.
“Wanna dance?”
I froze. “Now?”
“No, next Thursday,”
he deadpanned.
“Yes, now. C’mon. I’ve seen a video of you swaying your hips while stress-cleaning an entire living room to Dua Lipa. Don’t play shy.”
“I don’t know… we’re being watched.”
“Let them watch,”
he shrugged.
“We’ve survived worse.”
I hesitated, then sighed.
“Just one dance.”
“That’s how it always starts,”
he winked, taking my hand.
“Next thing you know, we’re barefoot in Puerto Vallarta.”
And with that, he led me away from the bar, through the colorful haze of lights, into the pulsing heart of Diego’s nightclub. I didn’t look back.
There’s a moment, right before the dance floor takes you, where you can still feel the resistance of your own logic—the quiet pull of order, of routine, of the way you thought the night would go. And then the beat hits, and someone’s hand is in yours, and you’re in it.
That was me.
Hudson dragged me into the crush of bodies, laughter and bass swirling together like the world’s most irreverent symphony. The air smelled like expensive cologne, liquor, and humidity. Sweat-slicked skin brushed against me on all sides. The music throbbed from beneath the floor, up through my soles, into my chest—like it had latched onto my bloodstream. And Hudson was still holding my hand.
He spun to face me.
“Okay,”
he shouted over the music.
“You’re going to have to let go of your inner Restoration Hardware for five seconds and actually enjoy this.”
I glared at him, but couldn’t help laughing.
“Fine. Five seconds. Then I’m going full design critique.”
“You always go full design critique the moment I lose a layer of clothing,”
he shot back.
“God forbid I take my shirt off without a TED Talk on overhead lighting.”
The song shifted into a remix of something shamelessly pop—an anthem with a beat meant to make people behave badly—and suddenly, we weren’t talking anymore. Just moving. I wasn’t a professional organizer anymore. I wasn’t the divorced husband or the lifestyle guru or the guy who scheduled his showers down to the minute. I was just a man dancing with another man I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Hudson was electric. Lazy in a deliberate way, confident in how he carried himself. He didn’t try too hard, didn’t peacock. He just was, and somehow, that made him the most magnetic thing in the room. I let myself get pulled into his orbit.
We were close. Closer than I ever thought I’d be with him in public. Our hips brushed. Our shoulders. His forehead leaned against mine for a second—just a second—and then we both laughed because it felt ridiculous and inevitable.
And then we kissed.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t a testing-the-waters kind of kiss. It was a we’ve been building to this for chapters, and we both damn well know it kind of kiss.
His lips were warm and a little rough from the night air, and his tongue—that damn tongue—moved with a kind of cocky grace I never knew I wanted. Just the right pressure, the right pull. Slow and sinful, like a promise he had no intention of breaking. One of his hands slid up the back of my neck and into my hair, and I swear my knees almost buckled.
I kissed him back, hard, because how could I not?
The lights flashed around us in a rainbow blur, but none of it mattered. The music kept going, but I couldn’t hear it. It was just his breath, his mouth, the smell of sandalwood, hot musk, and vodka on his skin.
We broke apart for a second, panting.
“Okay,”
Hudson said, dazed but grinning.
“So, I’m guessing that wasn’t just gratitude for dragging you onto the dance floor?”
“I’m still deciding,”
I murmured, before kissing him again.
By the time we finally came up for air, the room was spinning in the best possible way. I was flushed, maybe even glowing. He looked smug. The kind of smugness that should’ve annoyed me but instead made me want to kiss him again until the smugness melted into something softer.
I pressed a hand to his chest.
“I need air.”
“Same,”
he said, voice hoarse.
We started to make our way off the dance floor, dodging people who were now fully committed to losing themselves in the night. We grabbed bottled waters at the bar on the way out—hydration, after all, is a cornerstone of good decision-making.
“Where are we going?”
I asked as we stepped out into the night, the club’s neon wings still glowing behind us like some kind of flamboyant angel had blessed our departure.
“The beach,”
Hudson said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I gave him a look.
“Because nothing says romantic debrief like sand in your shoes?”
He shrugged.
“We’ve already got beach houses. Might as well act like we own the beach, too.”
I rolled my eyes, but I followed him anyway. He held the door for me as we stepped out onto the sidewalk.
“Uber’s two minutes away,”
he said, glancing at his phone.
“Once we get to Ocean Drive, let’s just start walking the beach back to our places.”
I nodded. My heart was still hammering in my chest. I took a long sip of water to hide the way my hands were shaking.
I kissed Hudson Knight on a dance floor. In public. Likely with cameras around, with strangers watching, with nothing in the way except the truth. And I didn’t hate it. Not even a little.
As the Uber pulled up and we slid into the backseat, Hudson reached over and laced his fingers through mine.
He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t have to.