You took the job because no one else wanted it.

Cleaning boats at the marina wasn’t exactly anyone’s dream summer gig, especially not this boat. The Camerons’ yacht was massive—white, glossy, the kind of thing people slowed down to stare at when they walked along the harbor. Most people thought working on it would be glamorous.

It wasn’t.

It was heat trapped in polished wood and glass. Long hours wiping down spotless surfaces that somehow still collected fingerprints. Vacuuming plush carpets no one ever seemed to actually walk on. Scrubbing the chrome railings until your arms ached while the Carolina sun bounced off the water and straight into your eyes.

Still, it was quiet work.

No customers, no small talk. Just the low hum of the marina, gulls overhead, and the water tapping softly against the hull while you moved through the yacht with a rag and cleaning spray.

Today you were in the main lounge, leaning over the glossy dining table and scrubbing out a stubborn coffee stain someone had left behind. The counters were already wiped down, the carpets freshly vacuumed, the windows spotless—showing nothing but endless blue water outside.

You were focused enough that you didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

“Missed a spot.”

You froze.

The voice was lazy. Amused.

You straightened slowly, turning your head.

Rafe Cameron leaned against the doorway like he’d been there the whole time, arms crossed, dark sunglasses pushed up into his hair. Expensive watch. Loose linen shirt half unbuttoned like he’d just stepped off another boat. He looked completely at home here.

Of course he did. It was his.

You glanced back at the table, then at him.

“The coffee stain?” you asked flatly.

He nodded once, lips twitching like he was enjoying this way too much.

“You missed it.”

You held his gaze for a second before tossing the rag down onto the table.

“Then you clean it.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“That’s not my job.”

You shrugged, already turning back to the counter like he wasn’t even there.

“Exactly.”

There was a pause.

Then a quiet huff of laughter behind you.

Rafe pushed himself off the doorway, stepping further into the room, his shoes soft against the carpet as he circled slowly like he was inspecting something far more interesting than the table.

“Bold,” he muttered. “Most people get nervous working on this boat.”

You didn’t look at him.

“Most people probably don’t get micromanaged by the owner’s son.”

“Owner’s son?” he scoffed lightly. “Please. I’m just here for quality control.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder.

“Your quality control is standing around watching someone else clean.”

Rafe smirked.

“Yeah,” he said casually, leaning his hip against the table you’d just wiped down. “But you’re way more interesting to watch than the counters.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the counter, but you could still feel his gaze on you—heavy, amused, impossible to ignore. Working on this boat was supposed to be quiet, simple.

Somehow, with Rafe Cameron standing there, it suddenly felt like neither of those things anymore.