Hooked up with a stupidly hot guy during a midnight bonfire party at the beach last night. Didn’t even know his name. Didn’t care. We kissed behind the dunes, he had his hands in my hair, I had sand on my knees — it was that kind of night.

He asked for my number. I said no. Told him straight-faced: I’m not looking for complicated. I’m not looking for anything. It was just a kiss. He laughed — actually laughed — and said, “Sure, whatever you need, sweetheart.” Then he let me walk away. I figured that was the end.

Fast forward to this morning: I roll out of bed at the rental house, steal my cousin’s hoodie, shuffle into the kitchen half-asleep looking for coffee… and guess who’s leaning against the counter drinking from the carton like he owns the place?

Rafe. Freaking. Cameron.

Shirtless. Smirking. Like the universe is messing with me.

Apparently he’s my cousin’s boyfriend’s best friend and they all decided to crash here after the party. Nobody told me. Of course.

I froze. He didn’t.

He pushed off the counter, walked up slow — like he had all the time in the world — and stopped right in front of me. Close enough that I could still smell the salt water from last night.

I tried to get ahead of it. “That kiss won’t be happening again,” I told him. Straight voice, dead serious.

Rafe lowered his head until he was eye-level with me, like he was studying a dare. That smug, infuriating smile spread over his face and he said — very quietly, like it was only meant for me:

“What if I make you ask for it?”

I swear my brain short-circuited. I stepped back. He stepped forward. One hand braced next to my hip on the counter and he whispered, with that lazy, cocky tone that melted my spine,

“Or do you want me to beg instead?”