You had only been in the Outer Banks for two days, and it already felt like everyone knew your name.

Your family didn’t just move here — you arrived. Big house, ocean view, private gate, the kind of place people slowed down to look at. Your father’s business had brought you here, expanding, investing, building something even bigger than before. And in a place like this, there was only one family that really mattered when it came to power.

The Camerons.

Ward Cameron already knew your father. Business. Deals. Mutual respect — or at least the kind of respect built on money and influence. So it wasn’t surprising when an invitation came. A private dinner. Multiple families. Elegant. Strategic.

What was surprising… was who delivered it.

Rafe Cameron didn’t do errands. Especially not this kind.

Yet here he was, pulling up your long driveway in a sleek black BMW, engine low and aggressive before cutting off. He stepped out, already annoyed, running a hand through his hair like he’d rather be anywhere else.

He thought he’d be handing this off to some assistant. Maybe your parents.

Not you.

The door opened, and for a second, Rafe just… stopped.

You didn’t look like what he expected. Not at all.

There was a brief pause — just long enough to notice. To take you in. The way you stood there like you belonged in a house like this. The way you looked at him like you weren’t impressed.

“Uh… Cameron,” he said finally, holding up the envelope like he remembered why he was here. “My dad sent this.”

You took it, fingers brushing his for half a second.

“Invitation,” he added, unnecessarily. “Dinner. Tomorrow night.”

You nodded slightly. “I figured.”

Another pause. Short. Charged.

Rafe shifted his weight, eyes still on you, something about his expression changing — less annoyed now, more… interested.

“Didn’t know they had a daughter,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You raised a brow. “Now you do.”

That earned a small smirk.

He glanced back toward his car, then at you again, like he was debating something — or maybe deciding.

“Anyway,” he said, stepping back slightly, “that thing tomorrow? Kinda boring. Lotta suits, fake smiles.”

Then, more casually:

“But tonight—” he jerked his head toward the road, “friend of mine’s throwing a party. Boneyard. Around eleven.”

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“You should come.”

Not a question. Not really an invitation either. More like a challenge.

His eyes lingered for a second longer, like he was trying to see if you were the type to say yes.

“Maybe I’ll see you there,” he added, already turning away.

And just like that, he was gone — engine roaring back to life, leaving behind the sound of it… and the feeling that this wasn’t going to be the last time you saw Rafe Cameron.