“And,” I add with what I hope is a charming smile, “it gives us a chance to play the perfect couple in front of everyone. You’re good at that.”
She gives me a look that could melt steel.
“Fine,” she says at last.
The restof the week passes in this strange new rhythm. Officially, we keep our distance—but our shared obsession with the treasure creates an undercurrent of connection that makes everything feel… charged.
We spend lunch breaks combing through old records, evenings exchanging theories over messages, and mornings carefully avoiding even the slightest accidental touch.
It’s exhausting.
And fascinating.
And incredibly frustrating.
Martha’s right.
I’m acting like a lovesick teenager.
Friday evening, just as I’m about to leave, Keira approaches me with a determined expression.
“Alistair? I’ve been thinking about tomorrow.”
“The barbecue?”
She nods.
“If we have to play the perfect couple, we might as well do it properly. I don’t want our families suspecting anything.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“A truce. Tomorrow, we forget the awkwardness—and go back to being the team we were before… before the lodge.”
“You think that’s possible?”
“It has to be. For the sake of our arrangement.”
Our arrangement.
The words sound emptier every time.
“Alright,” I say. “Truce.”
“Good.”
She holds out her hand.
When our palms meet, that same electricity snaps between us.
We both pull away too quickly.
“See you tomorrow,” she says, turning to leave.
“See you tomorrow, Keira.”
As I watch her go, I can’t help wondering?—
Is this truce going to fix anything…
