Page 4 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

I hang up a few things then head back to the living room.

Liam is sprawled on the couch, legs stretched out. He glances up, reads my face, and doesn't bother pretending he wasn't waiting.

I drop onto the other end and tip my head back against the cushion, staring at the ceiling.

Liam leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I'm not gonna ask. Not my business.” He pauses. “But I'll say one thing.”

I look at him.

“Whatever happened between you two… figure it out.” His voice is calm but firm. “I'm not trying to live in a war zone for the next ten weeks.”

He stands, rolls one shoulder, and heads down the hall without another word.

I plop on the couch, eyes on the door at the end of the hallway.

Seven years since I blew up the best thing I ever had. One thing I said. One thing I couldn’t take back. I made sure she’d never come after me.

I remember the look on her face while I said it.

She went quiet. Like something inside her shut down while I was still talking.

I ghosted because I was too ashamed to watch her realize I wasn't worth staying for. I told myself it was better that way. Told myself that for seven years. Then I walked into a networking event in LA and Connor Monroe introduced himself. Eighteen months since that moment.

Eighteen months since realizing exactly who he was.

Since Seeing Monroe on his business card and knowing before I even confirmed.

Thirty seconds of seeing her face before she locked me out.

But I'm not leaving this time.

Not until she tells me to go.

Chapter three

Chapter Three—Riley

First night with the guys in the penthouse, and I make it to midnight on water and spite.

The spite gives out first, but the water does its job. I sit on the edge of the bed listening to the penthouse settle—everyone in their rooms, no one about to ambush me in the kitchen. Probably.

I press my ear to the door. Strategic assessment, not paranoia. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices.

My stomach growls. Loudly. The universe clearly has opinions.

I crack the door and slip out.

The penthouse is dark and I make it to the kitchen and pull the cracker box from the cabinet before I notice the faint blue-white glow at the table.

Ethan is sitting there.

Laptop open. Glasses on. Button-down still buttoned at midnight. He looks up, takes in the crackers and peanut butter, and doesn’t comment.

“There’s actual food,” he says, nodding toward the fridge. “If you want it.”

He turns back to his screen. “Pasta. Salad. Soup.”

There is, in fact, very good pasta. I heat some up and eat it standing at the counter because sitting across from him feels like admitting something I’m not ready to admit. He goes back to typing. The silence between us is surprisingly comfortable.