You hadn’t expected to see him so often. Working as a cart girl at the country club seemed simple—smile at golfers, sell drinks, and rack up tips. You hadn’t counted on seeing Rafe Cameron almost daily, his sharp jawline and cocky smirk impossible to miss.

Rafe knew you—not well, but enough. A Pogue who didn’t fit the mold, you floated between groups. You didn’t hate the Kooks like most Pogues did. You were just friendly to whoever treated you well, and maybe that’s what made you stand out.

At first, he barely acknowledged you. A nod, sometimes a smirk if he felt generous. But that changed the day you laughed at one of his sarcastic jokes while delivering his drink order. You didn’t brush him off; you met his energy head-on, leaving him intrigued.

Over time, Rafe started lingering near the tee box, waiting for you to roll by. He’d make a snarky comment just to see you roll your eyes, always catching the smile tugging at your lips.

One afternoon, he saw an older man drop a twenty into your tip jar with a wink. It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. The idea of someone else being the reason for your laugh annoyed him more than he wanted to admit.

Later, as you packed up for the day, Rafe found you by the cart shed. “Long day?” he asked, leaning against the wall.

“Yeah,” you replied, surprised by the softness in his tone. “But the tips are worth it.”

He hesitated, then smiled. “You should let me buy you a drink sometime. You know, when you’re not working.”

Your heart raced. Rafe wasn’t easy to read, but something about this felt real. “Maybe I will,” you said, a small smile playing on your lips.

As you walked away, his gaze lingered, the slow burn of something undeniable settling between you.