Rafe had been sitting on the same leather barstool for an hour and a half, his knee bouncing a relentless rhythm against the mahogany counter. The ice in his scotch had melted twenty minutes ago, watering down the expensive liquor into something barely drinkable, but he hadn't ordered another one. He didn't want the bartender’s attention. He just wanted you.

It drove him crazy watching you work. Really, it made his skin crawl. You were running yourself ragged behind the bar of the Kildare Island Country Club, mixing overpriced martinis for men who wore boat shoes and thought their daddies' trust funds made them royalty. Rafe knew exactly how those guys thought because he was one of them. He knew where their eyes went when you turned around to grab a bottle from the top shelf. He caught the smug little smirks, the condescending tones when they asked you to remake a drink because there was too much vermouth in it.

It took every ounce of self-control he had left in his currently messed-up head not to reach across the counter, grab the nearest guy by his pastel polo, and bash his head into the brass railing.

But he promised you he wouldn't cause a scene. That was the deal. He gets to wait for you inside, out of the sticky North Carolina heat, and in return, he keeps his fists to himself.

He watched you slide a cocktail napkin under a fresh gin and tonic, flashing a tight, polite smile to some middle-aged guy who owned half the real estate on the island. Rafe recognized him. The guy was a creep. When he leaned in a little too close to hand you a twenty-dollar bill, Rafe actually shifted his weight off the stool, the heavy soles of his shoes scraping against the hardwood floor. He was a second away from intervening, but you just snatched the bill, stepped back seamlessly, and moved to the cash register without missing a beat. You threw a sharp, warning glare over your shoulder right at him.

Sit down, your eyes said.

Rafe scoffed quietly, sinking back into the leather. Fine. You had it handled.

Still, it grated on him. The fact that you were a Pogue busting your ass for tips while he had more money than he knew what to do with right now. He’d told you a hundred times to just quit. He could take care of you. He wanted to take care of you. With his dad completely out of the picture and the massive house on Figure Eight sitting empty, there was absolutely nothing stopping him from just bringing you home and locking the doors. But you were stubborn. You had that frustrating Pogue pride that he could never fully wrap his head around.

It wasn't like he didn't have his own shit to worry about. The situation with the cross, the absolute mess his family had become, the local cops always sniffing around—his brain felt like a live wire twenty-four hours a day. He couldn't sleep. He could barely focus on anything that wasn't moving the gold or keeping his own head above water. But sitting here, watching you exist in this mundane, exhausting routine, it grounded him. It was the only time his mind actually shut the fuck up.

He watched you wipe down the sticky surface of the bar, a few stray hairs falling out of whatever messy clip you had them tied up in. You looked exhausted. The bags under your eyes were getting darker, and the way you shifted your weight from one foot to the other told him your worn-out boots were killing your feet.

The last of the stragglers finally paid their tabs and stumbled out toward the marina. The heavy wooden doors swung shut, leaving the club mostly deserted save for the busboys cleaning the dining area in the back.

The silence settled over the room. Rafe finally let out a long breath, unclenching his jaw. He slid the watered-down glass away from him and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished wood. You tossed a damp rag into the sink beneath the counter and let out a heavy sigh, finally turning your full attention to him.

He tilted his head, a lopsided, tired smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes trailed over your face, taking in the slump of your shoulders.