The sun was merciless, beating down on the parking lot where girls in short shorts and tiny tank tops moved between cars, sponges dripping, soap running down tanned legs.

Music blasted from a speaker somewhere, laughter echoed, and the air smelled like cheap wax and flowers.

You wrung out your sponge, ignoring the way it made your palms slippery, and leaned over the hood of some guy’s truck, dragging the soapy sponge across the metal.

The whole thing was kind of ridiculous — your friend roped you into this fundraiser, and now you were stuck scrubbing cars while frat guys watched like it was some kind of show.

And then — because the universe was cruel — you heard his voice.

“Now, that’s a sight.”

Your shoulders tensed before you even turned around.

Rafe fucking Cameron, leaning against his car, arms crossed, looking like he owned the place. His white t-shirt clung to him in the heat, and his jaw was sharp enough to cut glass. His black Range Rover was parked right behind him, gleaming under the sun.

You huffed, squeezing the sponge. “What do you want, Cameron?”

His lips twitched, barely holding back a smirk. “Oh, I don’t know. Thought I’d support the cause.” He tossed a few bills into the donation jar near the entrance, then looked right at you. “And.. I need my car washed.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Pick someone else.”

“Nah,” he drawled, stepping closer, voice low and teasing. “I think I want you to do it.”

The heat on your skin wasn’t just from the sun anymore.

You exhaled sharply, grabbing the hose, and he grinned like he’d already won.