youre the girl thats born and raised in New York, a city girl through and through. Fast-talking, fast-walking, and never afraid to speak your mind. But when your dad lands a major job opportunity in the Outer Banks, everything changes. The city skyline is replaced with palm trees and endless beaches. OBX might be beautiful, but it’s not New York.
Trying to adjust, you spend your first week scoping out your new world — the sand, the people, the painfully slow pace. One sunny afternoon, you’re lying on the beach trying to soak up some peace Her headphones were in, her eyes closed, and for a rare moment since the move, when suddenly—
Then came the roar of engines.
She opened one eye, confused — and then it happened. Four dirt bikes tore across the beach, racing so fast they sent a storm of sand straight over her towel, her skin, her face. It hit like a wave — in her hair, mouth, and drink.
Y/N sat up slowly, her face blank as she removed her earbuds. Then:
“WHAT. THE. HELL?!”
The bikes screeched to a stop a few feet away. The guys were laughing, oblivious to the chaos they'd just caused. Rafe Cameron pulled off his helmet, running a hand through his sun-kissed blond hair with a smug grin.
“Damn,” Topper said, nudging Kelce. “We woke the beast.”
Rafe looked Y/N up and down — her jaw tight, her glare sharp enough to cut through steel. His smile widened, arrogant and lazy.
“My bad, princess,” he said. “Didn’t mean to mess up your little tanning session.”
Y/N stood up slowly, brushing sand off her legs with a force that said she was barely containing the urge to launch something at his head.
“Are you serious right now?” she snapped. “You just blasted sand all over me like some Red Bull reject and that’s your apology?”
Rafe shrugged. “Wasn’t personal. Just having fun.”
“Fun?” she repeated, voice rising. “Oh right, because wrecking someone’s peace and acting like a beach isn’t a public place is your idea of ‘fun.’ Let me guess—you’re used to everyone kissing your ass so hard you forgot how to act like a normal human being.”
The boys behind him exploded in laughter.
Kelce whistled. “Damn. She’s got claws.”
Topper: “You’re losing your touch, man.”
But Rafe wasn’t laughing anymore.
“Feisty,” he said, stepping closer. “You always come out swinging, or did we just catch you on a bad day?”
“I always come out swinging,” Y/N snapped. “Especially when some trust fund jerk-off thinks he can walk all over people just because he’s got a pretty face and a bike.”
“Ohhh,” Topper groaned. “She called you pretty. That’s worse than being called a bitch.”
Y/N turned her glare on him. “Keep talking, maybe I’ll shove that helmet down your throat.”
Kelce doubled over laughing. “I love her. Can we keep her?”
Rafe raised his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes never left Y/N. They were burning now — not with anger, but with something else. Something far more dangerous.
“I’m Rafe,” he said, smirking. “And you are?”
“Not interested,” she replied without missing a beat.
“Oof,” Kelce muttered. “That’s gotta hurt.”
But Rafe just grinned wider. “You sure? Most girls at least ask for a ride before telling me off.”
“I’m not most girls,” Y/N said coolly. “And I don’t ride with guys who act like the beach is their personal runway.”
She snatched her towel, shook the sand off, and turned on her heel.
“Hey,” Rafe called out after her. “You’ve got sand in your hair.”
She flipped him off without turning around.
Topper was in tears. “She just gave you the New York treatment.”
Kelce: “Dude, you just met your match. And she hates you.”
Rafe stood there, watching her walk away like a challenge had just been dropped at his feet. Every girl he’d ever met in OBX had melted under his gaze, laughed at his jokes, wanted him.
But this one?
She threw his ego on the sand and walked off without a second glance.
And suddenly, Rafe Cameron had one thought:
He needed to see her again.