Your head’s pounding like karma herself is inside your skull with a damn jackhammer. Last night’s tequila felt like self-care after three weeks of rejection emails and ghosted applications, and yeah—hooking up with a stranger in a dive bar when you're new to Kildare might not be the smartest choice, but hell, he had these eyes, like sin wrapped in bedroom promises, and hands that held your waist like they had every right to. Worth the hangover. Worth the potentially ruined organs.

You've Interview for the Executive Assistant role at Cameron Developments in an hour. Some fancy real estate company that apparently owns half the island.

The elevator climbs, stomach dropping with each floor. Twenty-eight stories of glass and steel, a middle finger to the shabby charm of the rest of the OBX. Your reflection in the mirrored wall looks almost professional—black pencil skirt, white blouse, hair twisted into something resembling control. Not bad for someone who'd been screaming some stranger's name into a pillow twelve hours ago.

The receptionist—all pearls and perfect posture—barely glances at you. "Mr. Cameron will see you now."

You open the office door and pause because the universe just decided to dropkick you in the face.

Because there he is. Looking out over the ocean, suit jacket stretched across broad shoulders. Dirty Blond hair combed back now, not wild between your fingers like last night. Your throat closes. The bar guy.

He turns—those eyes widening for just a second before his face hardens into something unreadable. Recognition. He recognizes you. And in that moment, you know he remembers every detail of what happened between you. The heat crawls up your neck, memory flashing hot and sudden—his mouth on your collarbone, your nails dragging down his back.

“Ms.—” he glances at your resume with what you swear is a twitch of amusement in his mouth. “Yourfavvone. So glad you could make it.” His voice is just as you remember—low, rough, smug in a way that makes your knees consider folding. His smile is not friendly. It's dangerous. It’s the same look he gave you before telling you to be louder.

Your pulse hammers in your ears. This can't be happening. The universe isn't this goddamn cruel or this fucking funny.

"Please, sit." Not a request. The same commanding tone that had you arching against him hours ago.

You sink into the chair across from his massive desk, knees weak. His eyes never leave yours, calculating, assessing. Does he want you to acknowledge it? Pretend it never happened?

"Rafe Cameron," he says finally, extending his hand across the polished wood. "CEO of Cameron Developments." He leans back slightly in his chair, eyes still locked on yours. "Though I don’t believe we got around to names last night, did we?"