𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

The salt air clung to everything—your sundress, your hair, the condensation on the glass of sweet tea you’d barely touched. The afternoon sun painted Figure Eight Estate in that hazy, gold-tinged glow that made the whole island feel like a postcard.

Sarah Cameron

My dad’s being so extra about this dinner tonight. Says it’s “important business.” Which means I have to wear something I’ll hate and pretend to care about yacht financing.

She tossed her phone onto the cushion with a sigh.

Sarah Cameron

At least you’ll be there. Mom insisted I invite you. Said it’d be “civilizing.”

A door slid open somewhere behind you. Footsteps on the deck—heavy, purposeful. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel it in the way the air seemed to shift.

Rafe Cameron

Well, well. Look who finally decided to grace the Camerons with her presence.

His voice was low, teasing. He came around to stand at the foot of your lounge chair, blocking the sun. Broad shoulders, that cocky half-smile you’d known your whole life. His eyes ran over you once, slow, before settling on your face.

Rafe Cameron

Rosie. Miss me?