The job was simple enough. Clean towels, take orders, pretend the heat wasn’t cooking your skin. You needed the money, so you kept your head down, stayed polite, and ignored the Kooks who sneered or made jokes about Pogue kids trying to fit in.

Except Rafe.

He was there every day, shirt off, sunglasses on, draped across the lounge chairs like he owned the place. Which, technically, he sort of did. He never tipped. Always teased. Called you “country club Barbie” or “employee of the month” like he was doing you a favor by even noticing.

You tried not to react. You had to keep the job.

But today was different. One of his friends grabbed your wrist too hard when you passed by. Something about refilling a drink. You flinched, pulling back, and tried to laugh it off, until Rafe stood up.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t even raise his voice.

“You don’t touch her. Not unless you want a problem.”