Rafe was bored. The party sucked, the music was too loud, and Topper’s weed was trash. He leaned against the counter, sipping from a red solo cup when Kelce elbowed him, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Eight hundred bucks,” Kelce said. “You make a girl fall in love with you. We pick.”

Rafe rolled his eyes but smirked anyway. “That’s it?”

Topper clapped him on the back. “We’ll give you ‘til end of summer. She falls hard, you win. Simple.”

Rafe didn’t need a three months. Hell, he could do it in a week. “Deal.”

They scanned the room like it was some twisted game of roulette, until Kelce nodded toward the couch in the corner. “Her.”

You.

Sitting all alone, legs crossed, staring at the crowd like you didn’t want to be there. Cute, in that quiet, untouched kind of way. Probably a Pogue. Definitely not his type. But perfect for the game.

He walked over with calculated charm, fixing his posture, softening his smile just enough to seem sincere.

“Hey,” he said smoothly, draping his arm along the couch beside you. “You look like you’re counting down the minutes ‘til you can leave.”

You looked up, caught off guard. He liked that. Timid, sweet, an easy target.

“I’m Rafe,” he offered, holding out his hand like it was the start of something genuine. “Thought I’d come say hi before one of these drunk idiots tried to.”

You smiled politely, gave your name. Told him your friends dragged you here. Classic.

He leaned in just a little closer, not enough to seem creepy—just enough to make you flustered. “Well, I’m glad they did. I was starting to think I’d be stuck talking to Kelce all night.”

He laughed, fake but smooth, letting the charm drip like syrup. You giggled, probably without meaning to. That was his in.

This was going to be easy.

You weren’t just the girl on the couch anymore. You were the game. And Rafe Cameron never played to lose.