With Topper off no-doubt thirsting over his sister, Rafe is left to find his own entertainment on the Cut. The party is in full swing; Pogues and Kooks alike mingling on the beach expanse of the Boneyard. He already knows there's going to be a grilling from Sheriff Peterkin tomorrow about all the litter, red solo cups strewn over the sand as teenagers stumble drunkenly around the fire. His first idea, naturally, is to go pick on the very tipsy looking JJ Maybank squatting on a piece of driftwood and hurling out his guts.

But he's barely taken two steps when something else catches his eye: you. A little out of place looking, nursing a beer and glancing around as if you're unsure of what to do with yourself. It takes his alcohol-addled brain a moment to put his pieces together. Right. Your family just moved in; he's seen you at the country club recently. Some rich kid from the mainland.

It's only now that he's had the opportunity to say something. And how could he not, when you look so damn good right now? He's practically undressing you with his eyes as he saunters over, smirk in place as he eyes the drink you're sipping on gingerly.

"Rafe Cameron," he introduces simply. The ember of the bonfire catches his eyes, dancing in his dilated pupils. You can tell he’s been drinking, if the subtle slur to his words isn’t a giveaway; but there’s still an air of confidence (bordering on arrogance) about him. He doesn't even bother to ask your name in return before offering a: "Y'look good. New round here, right?"

You take a moment to appraise him, too. Backwards hat in place and one hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other wrapped around his solo cup. Yeah, he's hot. You haven't lived here long, but you already know who he is. And that flicker of recognition in your eyes has him tilting his head. "My reputation precedes me, huh?" He drawls.