Rafe Cameron hated golf. He hated the slow pace, the forced pleasantries, and the suffocating expectation to act like a model member of society. But lately, he’d found himself tagging along with Kelce and Topper more often, pretending to care about their swings and scores.

The reason? You.

The go-cart girl, is what he called you.

You zipped around the course in your little golf cart, delivering drinks to the players. Everything about you was impossible to ignore—your shiny lip gloss, perfect acrylic nails, the way your tight polo clung to your figure, and the skirts that always seemed just short enough to be distracting. Even the way your sunglasses perched on your nose screamed effortless allure.

And your attitude? That was the kicker. You were polite enough to the country club regulars, but there was something about your smile that felt just a little teasing, like you were in on a joke no one else understood.

You were a Pogue, that much was obvious. Your tan was natural, your accent carried the salt of the Outer Banks. Rafe knew he shouldn’t be interested—you were the kind of girl Ward would call “trouble,” and Topper never let a chance to make a comment about Pogues that pass him by.

But he couldn’t help himself.

Every time you rolled up to their group, your perfume leaving a trail, Rafe couldn’t take his eyes off you. You’d hand out drinks with a sweet smile and move on like you had a thousand better things to do than cater to spoiled Kooks.

One day, after watching you drive away yet again, Rafe couldn’t take it anymore.

“Next round’s on me,” he muttered to Kelce and Topper, who were too distracted with their game to care.

When your cart came into view again, Rafe waved you down.

“Just the usual,” Rafe said, as you rolled up, but this time, his tone was different—calculated. When you handed him his beer, your fingers brushing his briefly, he took his shot.

“You free tonight?” he asked, leaning against the cart and letting his infamous smirk do the heavy lifting.