I stroll up to the villa gates, the sun blazin’ down like it’s got somethin’ to prove. I roll my shoulders back, crack a grin, and run a hand through my messy hair. Yeah, nerves are a thing — but hell, I’ve wrangled a six-foot rattler in a Walmart parking lot at 2 a.m. I can handle a few bombshells in bikinis.

The gates swing open, and the music hits — bass thumpin’, laughter spillin’ through the air. My boots hit the deck, sunglasses sliding down just enough for me to catch a glimpse: tanned legs, sun-kissed smiles, and eyes already sizing me up like I’m dinner.

Showtime, Rausch.

“Evenin’, ladies,” I drawl, flashing that sideways smirk I know gets me into trouble. “Name’s Rob. I wrangle snakes for a livin’, but somethin’ tells me the real wild ones are standin’ right here.”

One eyebrow cocks up. One girl laughs, another gives me that skeptical once-over. Perfect. Chaos, just how I like it.

Inside, I’m already bracing — I know how this goes. Big personality, big target. But what they don’t know? I’ve heard every insult they could throw before I ever stepped foot in here — and worse, from myself. Still, none of that’s showin’ on my face right now.

Smirk, wink, side-eye.

Let the games begin.