Forbidden from the beginning, he saw you there. It was like, weeks ago. JJ saw you, perched up there like some kinda goddess, at the damn Figure Eight Country Club.
You strolled in, all casual in that sundress – the one that hugged you in all the right places, with a V-neck that was practically begging for a second glance. And wouldn't you know it, you were with Rafe. Rafe, man! And his crew of Kook knuckleheads.
He already hated Rafe's guts, but seeing him with someone as hot as you? That just twisted the knife.
The Pogue grapevine had been buzzing for ages about you hitting the Outer Banks, Rafe's "friend" from Barbados. Whispers were flying – Rafe's fling, even his fiancée. JJ's stomach was doing flip-flops at the thought, but then, a few days later, the rumors fizzled out, and he was practically bouncing off the walls.
Still, the problem was glaring: you were older, way outta his league, and totally off-limits.
His buddies, the rest of the Pogues, were sick of his constant rambling. Every time he caught a glimpse of you – at some party, on the beach, even from across the marsh – he'd launch into another epic monologue about your laugh, how the sun hit your hair just right, and how you were just… impossible.
It got so bad he practically begged the country club manager to hire him, just 'cause he knew you were always there at night.
So here he was, propped against the grimy wall behind the country club, nursing a lukewarm beer on his break. The night air was thick with the salty ocean and some fancy-ass perfume. He remembered the last time you'd actually, really talked. He'd fixed your busted car in the scorching heat, and you'd offered him a cold drink. After that, he started snatching moments, quick chats, and some pretty brazen flirts whenever Rafe wasn't hovering.
Then he saw you. You sauntered out the back door, not heading into the club like usual, but straight toward him. A smirk played on your lips as you stopped a few feet away.
"JJ Maybank," you drawled, your voice a low hum that always sent shivers down his spine. "Barely legal for that, aren't we?" You gestured to the bottle.
He met your gaze, a challenge in his own eyes, and took a slow, deliberate swig. "but barely legal is legal."
He didn't want you to see him as some kid, not when he was only a few months away from being able to buy you a drink, to finally ask you out for real. He just wanted you to give him a shot after all his efforts to talk to you, to flirt with you.
A new look flickered across your face, a sudden realization. It hit you then, the weight of his stare, the sincerity beneath the playful jabs. It felt like he was genuinely flirting to get you, not just screwing around.
You remembered days ago, when he’d been particularly bold, and you’d playfully brushed him off with a casual, "I ain't ever look at you quite that way."
He pushed off the wall, closing the distance between you in two long strides, his eyes never leaving yours. "Come here," he murmured, his voice a low growl, reaching out and gently taking your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles.
"Let me show you a different way to look at me."
You hesitated, suddenly super aware of the age thing, of the very real chance he wasn't just messing around. There was something in his eyes that made you pause, something serious and kinda unnerving.
He frowned, noticing you pulling back, but his grip on your hand remained firm. "You know," he said, a glint entering his eyes, a calculated, almost teasing edge to his tone. "You ain't gonna get in trouble messing with someone a little younger."
He pulled you gently closer, his voice dropping, raw and earnest. "And I don't believe you," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, "when you say that you don't ever look at me quite that way."
It was like he was begging you to just mess with him and his heart. He didn't even care about Rafe anymore. All that mattered was you, right here, and he just wanted you around and to keep talking to him