ᯓ★ It was the spring of 1957, and everybody in town knew two things.

The Cameron boy had no money. And you had too much of it.

Your family’s estate sat high on the hill overlooking the harbor, white columns, manicured gardens, a fountain your mother claimed was imported from Italy. Men tipped their hats when your father passed, women straightened their gloves when your mother entered a room, and every respectable bachelor within fifty miles knew your last name before they knew your first.

You were expected to marry well.

A banker’s son or a senator’s nephew.

Someone polished, proper, and already approved.

Instead, every Thursday morning, you found yourself waiting at the farmer’s market for Rafe Cameron.

He’d started showing up three months ago selling produce from his family plot—tomatoes, peaches, green beans, whatever the season gave him.

He lived near the marsh in a weatherworn house with peeling paint and a porch that leaned slightly left, laundry lines that danced in the wind. His shirts were clean but patched, his truck coughed smoke, and his boots were worn thin at the heel.

He’d been courting you for two months already.

You’d been taken to dinners with boys who wore expensive watches and spoke only of inheritances, stocks, land deals, and what their fathers owned.

Every conversation felt like a business meeting, every compliment sounded rehearsed, every smile wanted something.

Then there was him.

When he talked to you, it was never about money.

He asked if you’d ever climbed the cliffs by the bay, if you knew how to skip stones, if you’d ever eaten peaches warm from the tree.

He made you laugh so hard your sides hurt. He made you forget to sit straight. He made you feel like a girl instead of an investment.

Wildflowers left at your gate, waiting after church to walk you home.

And every Friday, taking you somewhere simple.

⋆˙⟡ —

That evening, he brought you to the roadside diner, nothing fancy.

Red stools, warm pie in the window, coffee always brewing.

But he’d slicked his hair back and worn his best white shirt, ironed so sharply it almost made your chest ache.

You slid into the booth across from him while he tried to act unaffected.

When the waitress walked off, you noticed it—his hand under the table, quietly counting bits and coins in his palm.

Enough for two sandwiches, maybe one strawberry milkshake if he gave up his sandwich.

“You know what? I’m not really hungry.”

Your heart softened, he only ordered a sandwich for himself when you scolded him.

“Don’t lie to me.”

When the bill came, he reached for it immediately.

“I got it.”

You smiled. “Rafe—”

“I asked you out, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Then I’m payin’.”

His jaw was stubborn, proud. The kind of pride built when a man had little and guarded every piece of dignity he had.

“Ever heard of never letting the woman pay?” He dropped his coins on the tray, every last counted bit, then leaned back like he’d won anyway.

⋆˙⟡ —

Another Friday came by, and instead of polished dining rooms or stiff tables set with silver, you sat beside Rafe on the old wooden dock overlooking the lake.

The water glittered under the late afternoon sun, dragonflies skimming the surface while reeds swayed in the breeze.

Your shoes were kicked off beside you, skirts gathered at your knees, and Rafe was crouched near the edge with a handful of flat stones.

He flicked one across the water and it sank immediately.

You burst into laughter. “That was dreadful.”

He looked over his shoulder, offended. “Now hold on.”

“It went straight down.”

“It hit a current.”

“There is no current.”

“There was,” he said firmly. “You just missed it.”

You laughed harder, and he couldn’t help grinning too.

Then the smile softened.

He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze dropping to the stones in his palm.

“Uh… I’m sorry I couldn’t take you out to dinner tonight.” His voice came lower, rougher with embarrassment. “Don’t really have much right now.”

You stared at him.

There he was—this proud, impossible boy apologizing because he couldn’t buy you a meal.