Miles
I had butter under my fingernails, an adrenaline hangover, and a forehead lightly misted with olive oil—thank you, studio lighting and the lemon zest flambé segment. But damn it, I did it.
I had just finished filming the first official episode of my new Food Network show.
And not just any episode—a premiere. A big, splashy, brand-launching kind of show that involved precision prep, four outfit changes, an exploding immersion blender (RIP to the white marble backsplash), and one very charming segment involving heirloom tomatoes, Maldon salt, and a very flirty cameraman who kept winking at me from behind his lens.
Not that I noticed. Much.
The studio lights dimmed. The cameras powered down with a satisfying click. Someone off-set clapped. I caught my reflection in the overhead mirror—hair slightly windblown, cheeks flushed, apron slightly askew—and I smiled.
I looked… happy.
Real, worn-out, basil-scented happiness.
“You’re clear, !”
the floor manager shouted from behind a stack of prop baskets filled with figs.
I nodded and headed off-stage, untying my apron as I went and letting it hang over my shoulder like a dramatic chef-turned-superhero.
My assistant, Lena, appeared beside me like a caffeinated sprite, clipboard in hand.
“Your call sheet for tomorrow. And also—the execs said you nailed it. They’re already talking about syndication.”
I smirked.
“If they want more fig tartlets and life metaphors, I’m their guy.”
“And just FYI,”
she added, stepping aside as I reached my dressing room.
“Someone dropped off flowers while you were filming.”
I paused, my hand on the doorknob.
Flowers?
Inside, my dressing room smelled like peonies and leather. My favorite. The light above the mirror still glowed warm, and the room was its usual organized chaos—tape, call sheets, tweezers, color-coded folders.
And in the center of the room, sitting on my dressing table like something out of a movie?
A vase of wildflowers.
They weren’t perfect. Some were crooked. A few had petals already browning. One daisy looked like it had been fighting for its life in the backseat of an Uber.
But they were real.
Raw. Carefree. A little hectic.
I stepped closer and saw a folded note tucked between the stems. My stomach dropped the way it used to before a curtain call or a first date.
I opened it with a shaky hand.
Planning on taking a mini vacation and going off-script a bit before my next gig. Meet me in Rehoboth Beach next weekend, Alphabet Boy?
—Chaos
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The note blurred as a flood of memory returned like a wave swallowing the shoreline: Hudson, barefoot and ridiculous, pouring expensive wine on a Saturday afternoon. His kiss on the beach. That stupid, wonderful smirk when he called me Alphabet Boy. The way I wanted to hate him and ended up falling—stupidly, wildly, beautifully—for him.
It had been one whole year.
I’d tried dating. God knows I had. A data analyst from Portland who insisted on comparing our emotional compatibility with charts. A widowed doctor who cried during risotto. One very sexy bartender who made me a cocktail called The Gaslight.
None of them were Hudson.
And none of them called me Alphabet Boy.
I stared at the note again.
He was going off-script. Hudson Knight—King of Arrogant PR Disasters and Spontaneous Fainting at SoulCycle—was going off-script for me.
I turned on my heel, heart pounding, and flung open the dressing room door.
“Lena!”
She appeared out of nowhere, blinking as I nearly bowled her over with my energy.
“Yes?”
“I need a favor.”
She grinned.
“You want me to source that marble olive tray from the Sicilian scene?”
“No,”
I said, still clutching the note, heart hammering.
“I need you to book me a flight.”
“Where to?”
I inhaled deeply.
“The Airport in Philadelphia and then a car to Rehoboth Beach.”
She blinked.
“Like… the Rehoboth Beach?”
“Exactly the one.”
Her mouth curled into a knowing smile.
“I’ll call you a car. Also, I knew it. I knew the flowers weren’t from your publicist.”
I laughed. The kind of laugh that bubbles out of your chest when something finally feels right. When the universe nudges you softly in the back and whispers, Go on. Take the leap.
As she turned to make the arrangements, I walked back into my dressing room, still holding the note. I tucked it into my travel wallet. My pulse still raced as I grabbed my carry-on.
This next new Rehoboth Retreat wasn’t about finding myself anymore.
It was about finally going back.
And maybe—just maybe—finding him again, too.