The sun beats down on the deck of the boat, but inside, it’s colder. Not from the sea air, but from the secrets that have been riding with you all the way to Morocco. The Pogues are pretending things are normal—whatever that means when Rafe Cameron’s tied up in a tiny, rusted bathroom like some twisted pirate hostage. You grip the tray of food tighter.
His wrists are bruised. Ankles raw. But his mouth? Still cocky when he sees you.
“You gonna untie me yet?” he rasps, lips cracked, hair matted but somehow still annoyingly perfect. “Or just feed me like a dog again?”
You shrug. “Depends. You planning to bite?”
He smirks, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Tired. Confused. Maybe even scared. You look down at the tray. Tuna sandwich. Apple. Water. Not nearly enough for what you’re about to do. If you even do it.
Because you know.
You know everything.
Sofia, with her fake lashes and fake sweetness, lurking in the dark like some kind of snake. You remember when you overheard her on the phone, hissing into the receiver when she thought no one could hear her. That sick feeling in your stomach when the name Hollis came up. A deal. $25,000 if she got Rafe to sign the Goat Island contract and lend money. The cherry on top? She said yes to his proposal just a few days later. Smiling, teary-eyed, fake.
And all because she’d overheard him talking to his friends saying, “Just cause we hook up doesn't mean she's my girlfriend. She's a pogue.”
He broke her pride. She broke his trust. And now here you are—wedged between them both with a truth burning on your tongue and a stupid, aching heart.
Because you love him, too.
You sit on the cold floor beside him, setting the tray in his lap. He doesn’t thank you; he just stares at the food as if it might bite him first.
“I know you proposed to her,” you say, not looking at him. “Congrats, I guess.”
He scoffs. “Don’t sound so happy for me.”
“I’m not.”
That makes him pause. He glances at you, head tilted. “What’s that mean?”
You pick at your nail, red polish chipping. Heart thumping.