It was one of those wild late-night bonfire parties that happened every Saturday out in the Outer Banks.

Of course, you were there — dressed to kill — with your boyfriend, Topper, right by your side.

You wore a tight, black dress that hugged your curves perfectly, paired with big gold hoop earrings that shimmered in the firelight.

The night started off harmless. You had one drink, then two. Two drinks quickly turned into five. Five somehow became ten — maybe even twelve? Who was even keeping count at that point?

The world around you started spinning. Your vision blurred; faces melted together in the dim.

That’s when you saw him — Rafe Cameron — standing across the fire. Tall, dirty blonde, cocky as ever. Him and topper were locked in best friends He had that same arrogant smirk you were so used to seeing on Topper’s face.

In your drunken haze, the two of them were practically twins.

Without a second thought, you stumbled over to him, giggling and swaying. You didn’t hesitate. You pressed yourself against him, your hands running over his chest, your lips finding his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You thought you were with Topper. But you weren’t.