Rafe and Topper sat at a table in the country club, the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware filling the room. They had just ordered their food, but Rafe’s leg bounced like a restless pulse under the table. After an hour on the golf course, running through swings and muttering curses at missed shots, hunger had finally dragged them inside.

Rafe’s gaze kept sliding toward the waitress who had taken their order. There was something in the way she moved—confident, effortless—that made his chest tighten and a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back, jaw set, smoldering eyes fixed on her as she disappeared into the kitchen. Every time she passed the table, he caught himself straightening his posture.