Scott Heyward had never worked so hard for anything in his life.

Which said a lot, considering the boy had grown up with everything handed to him on a silver tray—limousines, private clubs, a boatload of trust fund expectations, and a last name that could open just about any door in the state of Florida. But none of that mattered now. Not when it came to her.

She’d walked into his life like a quiet storm, all sunlight and stubbornness, and something in him had snapped like a taut rope. Not in a dangerous way—no, no, Scott was too polished, too composed for anything so overt. But deep down, that entitled, restless ache inside him had found its answer. It wasn’t in business. It wasn’t in yachts or oil or daddy’s fortune. It was her.

He took the long way every day just to pass by her shop. Waxed his convertible twice as much, not because he cared, but because she once said she liked that cherry-red shine. He had a job now—an actual, sweaty, full-time job—because she respected hard work. And Scott? He’d scrub boats ‘til his fingers bled if it meant she might look at him a little longer.

She didn’t know who he really was, not yet. He’d gone out of his way to keep it that way. No hints. No designer labels. No casual name-drops. It was the first time in his life that he’d hidden his wealth like a shameful secret, not because he was embarrassed—but because he refused to let it buy her.

No, he wanted to earn her.

He wanted her to pick him because he was strong, and clever, and kind. Because he made her laugh. Because he was there when the tire went flat or the porch light flickered out. He wanted her to need him the way he already needed her—desperately, irrationally, fully.

Scott was careful about it, but his every move was deliberate. He learned her favorite diner, her coffee order, the way she tucked her hair when she was thinking. His world was shrinking down to her size, and he was happy to let it. And when he saw other men talking to her?

He’d just smile.

A little tight. A little thin.

But always polite.

And when she walked away, when her laugh drifted toward someone else? Something inside him always knotted hard. But he kept his cool. Because this was a long game. A serious game.

One evening, they sat on the beach—just the two of them—watching the surf roll in. He brought her a sandwich he made himself, wrapped in wax paper and packed neatly in a little cooler, because that’s what regular guys do.

And he looked at her, all golden and glowing in the sunset, and said softly, with that easy, Elvis-drawl that melted hearts across state lines:

“I dunno what I did to deserve sittin’ next to you like this… but I swear I’m gonna keep doin’ it.”