You were done with him.

Rafe was impossible, and he knew exactly how to push your buttons. The argument had started over something stupid—something that shouldn’t have escalated. But, of course, it did.

So you left. Stormed out. Walked right out of the country club, your heels clicking against the pavement as you cursed under your breath.

The night was warm, the summer air thick with salt and tension, and your dress stuck to your skin as you walked along the road. You were still fuming, of course he had to be the most frustrating man on earth.

A low rumble cut through the night.

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.

The motorcycle pulled up beside you, headlights casting a golden glow onto the pavement. Rafe’s silhouette was sharp against the streetlights as he sat there, one hand lazily gripping the handlebars, the other resting on his thigh. His rings glinted under the moonlight.

“You done being dramatic?” he called over the engine, smirking.

You scoffed, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “Go to hell, Rafe.”

“Baby,” he drawled, leaning forward slightly, his voice teasing. “You really think I’m letting you walk home?”

You ignored him and kept walking.

Within seconds, he was off the bike, closing the distance between you in just a few long strides. Before you could react, his hands were on your waist, and suddenly-

“Rafe!” you shrieked as he tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

He didn’t even flinch. Just walked back to the bike with you kicking and struggling in his grip, one arm locked around your thighs.

“Put me down, you asshole!” you huffed, fists pounding against his back.

He laughed. “Not a chance, princess.”And then, just to piss you off even more, he smacked your ass.

You gasped, face burning, glaring daggers at him. “I hate you.”

Rafe grinned, his lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “No, you don’t.”

And, god, he was right.