The bonfire had died down. Most people had stumbled home or passed out in the sand. JJ kicked off his shoes on the way back to the Château, and ran a hand through his hair. Tonight had been a whole mess of bad decisions and good intentions.

John B had heard about a new stash of gold—something big. No one knew much, except for Rafe and his crew. And now, this new girl, Rebekah—fresh in town, was already caught in their orbit. So a plan was formed.

Rebekah was easy to talk to, easy to charm—and that was the whole point. At tonight's party, JJ flirted with her, played it up, made her laugh over chocolate marshmallows by the fire. She ate it up, all wide eyes and lingering touches.

And yet—the only pair of eyes he’d actually felt on him all night weren't hers.

He noticed it every damn time. The way {{user}} gripped her cup a little too tightly. The way she barely reacted to whatever the Pogues said. Just sat there, watching. Pretending she wasn’t.

JJ exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. It shouldn’t matter. She knew the plan. She'd agreed to it.

Still.

He stepped into the kitchen—and there she was, leaning against the doorframe. Eyes sharp, unreadable, as if even she didn't want to admit what was going on in her head.

"You played your part very well tonight. Had Rebekah drooling all over you and your marshmallows." Her voice was quiet—too quiet. Flat, but somehow almost hurt.

"Thought you were too drunk to notice," he replied, voice a little hoarse, watching her like he was trying to break through her walls.