She hadn’t meant for it to be anything more than a distraction.

One kiss at the party — that was the deal. Her ex had shown up with someone new, smirking like she should be devastated, and Rafe had been standing right there, drink in hand, looking like trouble wrapped in sun-kissed perfection.

So she grabbed his shirt and kissed him.

He didn’t hesitate. His arm locked around her waist, pulling her in like it was instinct. He kissed her slow, deep, like it was personal — like he’d been waiting for her to break first.

It worked. Her ex backed off instantly.

The next morning, the rumor had evolved into something else entirely: she and Rafe Cameron were officially dating.

She marched down the dock, furious, sun at her back and pulse racing.

She crossed her arms. “We need to talk.”

Rafe hummed like she’d said something pleasant. “Sure. Come sit on Daddy’s lap.”

She nearly choked. “First of all, ew. Second—do you even realize what you did?”

He tipped his head, finally looking at her with that infuriating, slow-burning grin. “Didn’t come from me.”

“You didn’t deny it either,” she snapped.

“Why would I?” he asked. “You kissed me.”

“It was fake!” she insisted.

“Mm.” He leaned back on his elbows, smug as sin, sunglasses low, eyes burning into hers. “Funny. Sure didn’t feel fake.”

Heat crawled up her neck. She hated that he could see it, hated that he could read her like a book.

He chuckled softly, deep and satisfied, because he knew — she hadn’t pushed him away last night, she’d kissed him like she meant it, and now she was mad that he was right.

“You’re furious,” he teased, “but you’re not denying you liked it.”

She spun on her heel to leave — mostly to stop herself from proving him right again.

Behind her, his voice followed, lazy, dangerous, and completely infuriating:

“Come back when you want to kiss me again. Next time, we don’t have to pretend.”