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You would have thought Jean’s strappy platform espadrille was a Fabergé egg from the way they were all carrying on.

“I swear you could fall off a flat patch of grass while standing still,” Mr. Pike said to his son. He seemed to have two modes: negging Charlie and talking like a human billboard.

Meanwhile, Euro Daddy was studying the broken strap so intently, Jean wondered if he moonlighted as a cobbler. “Your lovely shoe,” Mr. Koenig sighed. “What a pity.”

Jean had never had a thing for older men, but there was some serious magnetism coming off this guy.

The swoop of hair, the golden skin, those sculpted-by-Michelangelo cheekbones: it all screamed “I spend a lot of time swimming laps in my sleek minimalist pool before sweating out impurities in the sauna.” Also, you had to be majorly hot to pull off a western-style shirt with pearl buttons and the faint sheen of silk.

He looked like either a European soccer coach or high-end male escort.

His daughter had a totally different vibe, with a face that said shy milkmaid—if you overlooked the sharpness of her gaze. Jean would have to be careful with that one.

Going in, she’d been most worried about fooling Charlie’s parents, but they were easy marks compared to Emma Koenig.

She seemed most likely to see through the “Sockless Tommy’s niece” charade, which was annoying for practical reasons that had nothing to do with the fact that the senior Pikes were obviously pushing a match between Emma and Charlie.

As if Jean cared about that!

She didn’t.

As evidenced by the way she had sailed through the first test: seeing Charlie again. She’d played the moment like a champ, supercilious and above it all, as if she ate beautiful beer heirs for breakfast. Jean was in full command of the situation, a haughty hottie.

Extra props to “Eve” on being so convincing no one questioned her identity. If Jean was flustered on the inside, that was forgivable. First-night jitters were part of any performance. At least she’d hit her marks.

All Jean had to do was stick her leg out at the exact right moment and boom! Charlie took care of the rest.

She suspected Emma Koenig knew Jean had tripped him, but thus far she seemed to be keeping the information to herself. Maybe she’d write it up in her next journal article, like the fancy science person she was. That would impress Charlie, in case her booze fortune wasn’t enough of an attraction.

Though maybe not as much as Jean’s bustier and crotch-skimming shorts.

The upside of being dressed like she took a wrong turn on the way to Ibiza while everyone else was doing Grand Ole Opry cosplay was that Charlie had been unable to tear his eyes away.

Jean might have been easy to leave, but she was going to make damn sure she was impossible to ignore.

Remember this? That’s what I thought.

So far, her plan was working like a charm. And now it was time for phase two.

“I need to change,” she announced.

“I can take you.” Charlie spoke so fast it was a miracle he hadn’t bitten his tongue. “Do you want a piggyback ride?”

“Don’t be weird, son.” Mr. Pike indicated the door with his chin. “Get the golf cart.”

Jean watched from her comfortable position in the passenger seat as Charlie hoisted another piece of luggage into the back of the golf cart. He was red-faced and sweating, darting to the pile of monogrammed suitcases as if they were escaping a burning building with all their worldly possessions.

“I’ll have to come back for the rest,” he said, wiping his forehead.

“Hmph,” Jean sniffed, strongly implying she’d had better service at the last house party she crashed.

It was a little concerning that she wouldn’t be staying in the main house with the VIPs, but there were bound to be setbacks in any scheme of this magnitude.

Like those heist movies where one of the key players gets sick at the last minute and the rest of the team has to improvise with superglue and a department store mannequin.

Charlie dropped into the seat beside her, working his long legs under the steering wheel with difficulty. “Here we go.”

As they rolled over the grass, the only sound was the whine of the electric motor.

Jean tipped her head back to look up at the blobby red rock formations studding the hilltops.

The shapes reminded her of the drip castles her best friend taught her to build with wet sand when Jean first moved to Oahu for college.

Those sunny beaches seemed like a distant memory now. There was a distinct snap in the air as the shadows deepened around them, like cool fingers reaching for Jean’s bare skin. The second she was alone, she was ditching this “which way to the rave?” ensemble for something warmer.

Charlie had never told her it was beautiful here. She added that to her running tally of things he’d failed to disclose. It was easier to think about his many failures than his presence beside her.

Now that it was just the two of them, it would be so easy for him to turn to her and say, “Jean,” popping the soap bubble of her hoax. Instead he drove as if it required his full concentration, only sneaking occasional glances at the side of her face.

The cart moved slowly around a series of outbuildings.

Jean probably could have crawled faster, but then she wasn’t hauling a thousand pounds of baggage.

Or at least, not the Louis Vuitton variety.

They passed a garden, a rushing stream, and a random putting green before reaching an open field dotted with what looked like—

“Are those covered wagons?” Jean forgot to sound blasé. Surely even Eve would be surprised to find this Oregon Trail moment happening. There were a dozen of the wood-and-canvas structures arranged in a loose semicircle, far enough apart that you probably wouldn’t hear your neighbor snoring.

What was next, a bout of dysentery? Maybe Charlie could supply a few snakes, to make the experience more authentic.

“It’s not a real covered wagon. They’re for camping, but fancier,” Charlie said. “There’s a word for it.”

“Vamping?” Jean suggested, determined to be as unhelpful as possible.

His brow furrowed. “I don’t know. But I can tell you it has a real bed.”

The cart stopped moving as he spoke, so the word “bed” landed like a boulder.

Jean knew it wasn’t the rosy glow of the setting sun turning Charlie’s cheeks pink as he stammered, “I mean, they all do. The wagons. Wagon tents. You should be very comfortable at night. All of you. In your individual, ah, beds.”

“As long as you don’t expect me to pee in a bucket.” There. Nothing like bathroom talk to squelch any flicker of romantic nostalgia.

“No.” He rubbed his jaw, and Jean barely gave a thought to how it would feel without the whiskers. By rights, he should have looked worse now that he’d shaved his scruff, but Charlie could have been a matinee idol in an eight-by-ten glossy.

“The old brewhouse is behind that stand of trees. There are real bathrooms. Showers too.” Charlie swallowed, perhaps recalling the last time they’d showered together. It would be a cold day in hell before she scrubbed his back again. Much less his front.

Stumbling from the driver’s seat, he hurried up a short flight of wooden stairs to the canvas door, flicking on the battery-powered lantern hooked to the outside.

“Here we are,” he said, in case she hadn’t figured that out. “Home sweet home.”

Jean regarded him with a stony expression, refusing to make this any easier on him.

“I should carry you.” The idea seemed to hit him like a thunderclap, sending him bounding back down the stairs to her side. “The grass might be wet. Or if you step on the gravel, that could hurt your foot.” He hesitated, arms outstretched. “May I?”

Jean crossed her arms, like it didn’t matter to her one way or the other. Shifting her legs ever so slightly, she made room for him to slip his hands under her thighs.

Her practically naked thighs, given the shortness of her shorts, now skin-to-skin with Charlie’s bare-to-the-bicep arms. As he straightened, cradling her to his chest, it felt an awful lot like Jean’s bare ass was pressed against the crook of his elbow.

Not a line item on her master plan, but maybe she could work with it, judging by the stutter in his breath as he ducked sideways to get through the doorway.

Inside the wagon, the curved ceiling was too low for him to straighten to his full height, so he hobbled in a slow half circle, looking for a place to set her down.

The options were limited to the bed, a luggage rack, and the floor.

After another moment’s hesitation, Charlie carefully lowered Jean onto the snowy white duvet.

When he tried to extricate his arms, his watch caught in the fringe of her crocheted vest.

“Sorry,” he whispered, eyes traveling over her face with a desperate eagerness.

“This is virgin vicuna,” she replied in a sultry tone.

“Vir—what?”

“Vicuna,” she drawled, puckering her lips. “A very small camel.”

“Oh.” He was still staring at her mouth.

“It’s rare. And expensive.”

“That’s nice.”

“I know. So don’t tear it.”

“I’ll be very careful.”

Will you, though? She didn’t say that part out loud. It required Jean’s full concentration to maintain a poker face while Charlie reached under her thigh to fumble with his watch strap, unfastening it so he could pull his arm free.

“There. All clear.” He smiled down at her, seemingly unbothered that he’d lost what was probably an expensive timepiece in her clothing. A lock of dark hair tumbled over his forehead.

Must not touch the hair , Jean’s inner drill sergeant barked. She turned her head to avoid temptation. “I need new shoes.”

Charlie scrambled backward, straightening to a half crouch. “There’s a store about thirty miles up the highway. I could take you—”

“From my suitcase.”