The Outer Banks weren’t home. Not yet. Maybe never.

New York had rhythm. Chaos. People walking like they had somewhere to be even if they didn’t. That constant hum of energy that made the city feel alive. This place was slower, quieter, golden from the sun and soaked in the smell of salt and sand. Beautiful, sure—but it felt like I’d been dropped on another planet.

And I wasn’t here by choice.

The company I worked for—high-powered, fast-moving, always one deal ahead—decided I was the perfect candidate for a temporary relocation. “Just a few months,” they said. “Help our partner in the Outer Banks streamline some systems.” That partner? Cameron Development. One of the most talked-about real estate dynasties in the country. And at the top of it?

Rafe Cameron.

I’d heard whispers. Stories. Some impressive, some… less than professional. But none of it mattered. I was here to do a job.

I adjusted my outfit as I crossed the sleek marble floor of the Cameron building’s lobby. My white silk blouse was tucked neatly into a fitted black skirt that ended just above my knees, the material hugging my curves without giving away too much. A thin leather belt cinched my waist, and my legs, bare and smooth, ended in black Louboutin heels that clicked against the floor with each determined step. A delicate gold watch wrapped around my wrist, and my hair was swept up into a sleek, tight bun—sharp and perfectly in place.

Just like me.

The receptionist barely looked up before motioning to the elevator. “Eighth floor. Mr. Cameron is expecting you.”

The metal doors slid open, and I stepped inside. The air was cool and quiet, humming with the faint buzz of electricity. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror-paneled walls—calm, composed, every inch the professional assistant I was supposed to be. But inside, my stomach twisted in knots.

This was a mistake.

Ding. Eighth floor.

The doors opened to a wall of glass, sunlight streaming in and bathing the room in a glow that made it feel more like a beach house than a corporate office. And there he was.

Rafe Cameron.

Tall. Golden. Rolled-up sleeves and a grin that looked like it had ruined lives. His light blue dress shirt clung to his chest, the top two buttons undone, revealing a hint of tanned skin and a gold chain peeking through. His jaw was sharp, his hair tousled like he didn’t care and somehow made it work. He didn’t look like a CEO.

He looked like trouble.

His eyes locked onto mine the moment I stepped forward. And then he smiled.

“Well, damn,” he said, voice like bourbon and smoke. “They didn’t tell me my new assistant would look like that.”

I swallowed the blush threatening to creep up my cheeks and forced my voice to stay even. “Mr. Cameron. I’m here to help, not to be looked at.”

He laughed, slow and amused. “Call me Rafe. ‘Mr. Cameron’ sounds like my dad. And don’t worry—I’m sure I’ll put you to work. But I’m also a firm believer in appreciating beauty when it walks through my door.”

He stepped closer—too close—and I caught the scent of expensive cologne mixed with ocean air. My chest tightened. He tilted his head, studying me like I was some puzzle he intended to solve.

“You don’t like it here,” he said. “I can see it. You walk like you’re still in New York.”

“I am still in New York,” I replied. “In my head, at least.”

Rafe chuckled, low and genuine. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you to loosen up.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Not your job.”

“Maybe not,” he murmured, “but it’ll be fun trying.”

Something about the way he said it made my skin prickle. He wasn’t just flirting—he was testing. Pushing. Seeing how far he could go.

This wasn’t what I signed up for. But standing there in that sun-drenched office, feeling the heat rise beneath my skin as his eyes lingered on me—God, I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop him.

It was supposed to be a job.

But it already felt like a game.

And Rafe Cameron didn’t look like the kind of man who played fair.