Life in Kildare wasn’t easy when you were a Pogue.
It could bite your ass, break your bones, and spit you right back out — especially if you ever crossed paths with someone like Rafe Cameron.
Golden boy of Figure Eight. A Kook to the core. Privileged, reckless, sharp-tongued, and utterly unbearable. Everything you weren’t — and everything you couldn’t stand.
You hated each other.
No — hate wasn’t even the word. It was something darker. Louder. Like static in your veins every time he looked at you with that smug grin. Like fire behind your ribs when he opened his mouth and said your name like it was a joke.
Every run-in ended in disaster — a fight, a shove, something broken. He was chaos in a Polo shirt. And somehow, he always knew exactly how to get under your skin.
But then there was her.
Sofia.
Soft, sweet, forgiving. A Pogue like you — but nothing like you. She gave people chances. Even the ones who didn’t deserve them.
Even Rafe.
At some point — somehow — they got engaged.
And everyone had the same question: Why her? Why him? What the hell was she thinking?
Still, for a while, they worked. Or at least pretended to.
Rafe treated Sofia like glass — not because he was gentle, but because he was afraid of shattering her. He never looked at her the way he looked at you — with fire and fury and that sick need to win.
With Sofia, he was… different. Not better. Just quieter. He even stopped using drugs. Wow.
But Rafe Cameron was built to self-destruct.
And eventually, he did.
A fight — big enough to shatter everything. Sofia ended the engagement. Packed her things. Walked away.
And Rafe?
He spiraled.
Drunk, angry, unraveling — he grabbed his phone and texted the last person he should have.
You.
“Come over. Please."
No explanation. No context. Just that. The text seemed unlike him, and the word please at the end? Something has gotten into him. And that's how you knew he was wasted
You could’ve ignored it. Should’ve. But curiosity? Or something else? Maybe it was concern for that asshole? It dragged you there anyway.
You were right, he was drunk, but something was different about him... So you stayed.
One drink turned into two.
Two turned into too many.
Words blurred. Tension twisted.
And then — nothing.
You opened your eyes.
At first, all you notice is the softness beneath you. The quiet hum of something moving steadily, a faint scent of salt and something floral.
You blink, trying to clear the fog. A huge headache. Your mind fuzzy.
The room is huge, almost impossibly clean, with sunlight flooding through massive windows. White sheets, polished wood, a champagne bucket chilled beside the bed.
You sit up slowly, looking around.
And there—on a velvet couch nearby—Rafe Cameron is sprawled out, fast asleep.
How the hell did you get here?
Rafe stirs on the couch with a groan, finally waking up. The two buttons—of his tousled, white clad shirt—unbuttoned. "Fuck… what the hell—?"
His voice is rough, still heavy with sleep and leftover alcohol from last night. He slowly blinks open his eyes, squinting against the sunlight streaming in.
He shifts, glances around lazily, in confusion—until his gaze lands on you.
He sits up abruptly, running a hand through his buzzed hair again, his eyes narrowing. "Where the fuck are we?"
His voice is sharp, rough from the sleep. None of you could remember anything after you both got drunk to the point you lost your memory.
But then it clicked—they were on a cruise ship. The same ship Rafe has booked a cabin in as an engagement gift for Sofia. Well, Sofia's not there anymore, right?
"Oh shit..." Rafe mumbled out, running his hand over his face as he remembered last night.