Page 1 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

Chapter one

Chapter One—Riley

There are exactly three things I don't need in my life right now:

Complications. Men. And whatever is about to walk through that door.

The elevator dings. I've been half-listening for it all afternoon—that particular slowdown when it stops on this floor instead of sailing past. Four days in my brother Connor's penthouse and I've already memorized its patterns: the constant hum of the AC, the way the city lights flicker on around seven, the twelve-second delay before the shower actually gets hot.

Connor undersold it: free rent, killer view, pool access, and only a couple investor dinners a month. Not to mention uninterrupted silence and the best sleep I've had in two years. No looming deadlines except my own, just me, my laptop, and a pool deck with furniture that costs more than everything I own back home. Home is currently Portland. A studio on the third floor. Good light, one window that sticks, a coffee shop on the corner that’s been getting my order slightly wrong for two years. I’ve never corrected them. At some point it just became mine.

I close my laptop. Straighten my shirt. Tug my ponytail a little tighter—possibly the most effort I'm willing to invest.

The deal is simple. Connor's partners need a place to stay after their hotel fell through. The penthouse has plenty of room. I said yes because the math worked. Nobody asked me to play hostess. I'm basically a very well-compensated ghost.

I'm not even entirely sure what these guys actually do. Some luxury real estate thing. Big deal with old-money investors. They need a polished Vegas base for a couple months, and apparently my existence here checks some invisible box.

Useful for once.

The elevator opens.

The first one steps out and extends his hand before I finish pulling the door wide.

“Ethan Cole.” Firm grip, exact eye contact. Button-down in Las Vegas in March, collar still buttoned, hair combed like it has a job to do. His eyes behind the glasses are a cool blue that doesn't invite small talk. “You must be Riley.”

His gaze holds half a second too long—clinical, thorough, and not entirely professional.

“I must be,” I reply. My breath snags.

He nods once, like I've confirmed a data point, and steps inside.

Behind him, the second one flashes a grin that should probably come with a warning label.

“Liam.” No last name needed—the smile has been closing deals for years. Broad shoulders, light brown hair, stubble that looks careless but probably isn't. He looks like the kind of man who's heard “yes” so often he'd be genuinely surprised by anything else. And damn, he's gorgeous. Information I did not need to notice.

But those green eyes are busy. Under the easy charm, he's clocking everything.

“Connor's told us a lot about you,” he says, voice warm and teasing.

“Good things, hopefully.”

“Mostly.” That grin deepens, a smile that makes bad ideas feel like excellent ones. He lifts the biggest bag effortlessly and moves past me, close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne and the awareness that this man is going to be a problem. He sweeps the penthouse with one slow glance—the view, the layout, the golden Vegas skyline burning through the windows. “Nice place.”

“It's Connor's,” I say.

“Right.” He sets the bag down, still smiling. “Of course it is.”

Ethan has already moved to the windows, hands in his pockets, reading the city the same way he just read me.

And then the third man steps through the door.

My body recognizes him before my brain catches up.

The drop in my stomach is instant. Seven years vanish in less than a second. Nothing has changed—not the line of his jaw, not the way he carries himself, not the way my pulse still betrays me.

He looks good. Better than he has any right to. Dark hair a little longer, shoulders broader, that same quiet intensity in his brown eyes. He's filled out, settled into himself. Less boy, more man who knows exactly how much space he takes up.

He sees me at the same moment.