You bump into Rafe Cameron at a crowded party at the boneyard, your drink spilling across the front of his shirt. He freezes, eyes narrowing as he looks down at the stain, then back up at you.

“Seriously?” he snaps, his sharp tone cutting through the music.

Before you can stammer out an apology, he leans in slightly, his expression unreadable. “You’ve got great timing, don’t you?”

Your cheeks burn as you scramble to respond, but he smirks, running a hand over his dirty blonde hair buzzcut. “Don’t bother,” he says, his voice low. “But you owe me one now.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turns and walks off, leaving you wondering if you’ve just made a mistake—or caught his attention.