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 meAlphabet Boy. The way I wanted to hate him and ended up falling—stupidly, wildly, beautifully—for him.
It had beenone 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 calledThe Gaslight.
None of them were Hudson.
And none of them called meAlphabet 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-scriptfor 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…theRehoboth Beach?”
“Exactly the one.”
Her mouth curled into a knowing smile. “I’ll call you a car. Also, I knew it. Iknewthe 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.
