The sun hung low over Tannyhill, bleeding gold across the tiled patio. You lay stretched across a lounger beside the pool, sunglasses perched on your nose, skin warm and glowing beneath the heat. The air was thick with the smell of chlorine and the distant crackle of cicadas, but none of it mattered—you were alone. Or so you thought.

A splash. Footsteps. And then—his voice.

“Well, well. Look who’s trespassing.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even turn your head. “I was invited,” you replied coolly, fingers trailing lazily along the condensation on your water bottle.

Rafe Cameron appeared in your periphery, glistening and shirtless, water rolling down his chest in slow rivulets. His swim trunks hung low on his hips, and his grin was just as dangerous as his reputation. He grabbed a towel, running it through his hair with one hand, the other slung casually at his side as he sat on the lounger beside you—too close. Always too close.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice low, almost amused.

You tilted your head just enough to meet his eyes. “So are you.”

He didn’t look away. His gaze dipped—slow, deliberate—from your lips to your collarbone, down the slope of your waist. “Can you blame me?”

The air shifted.

“You wore that on purpose,” he said, voice darker now. “Knowing I’d be out here.”

You gave a small shrug, playing indifferent—but your pulse betrayed you. He leaned in, resting his elbow on the arm of your chair, lips brushing your ear.

“Careful,” he murmured, “or I’ll think you actually want my attention.”

And you did. That was the problem.