Page 10 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

I watch Riley shift on the couch, still half-smiling at whatever's on her screen.

“I hear you,” I say easily.

“I mean it.”

“Connor,” I keep my tone light. “I heard you the first time.”

He exhales. “Look… she's had a rough couple of years. She doesn't show it. She'll have you laughing before you realize she might need someone looking out for her. Just… make sure she's okay. That's what I'm really asking.”

“I'll make sure she's okay.” I mean it more than he probably expects.

We talk a few more minutes about the Harrington timeline, the third property numbers, and whether the Wi-Fi is holding up. Connor tells me to say hello to everyone and hangs up.

I set the phone down and look across the penthouse. Riley has stretched out on her back now, laptop balanced on her stomach, bare feet dangling off the armrest. Working. Thinking. With her it's hard to tell.

Ethan steps into the hall as I come out of the kitchen, finishing a call in that precise tone he saves for people who aren't in the room. He hangs up when he sees my face.

“Connor?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I lean against the wall. “The rule is officially in effect. Riley is off-limits, not a Vegas situation, he trusts we're decent people. Sounded like he was reading from notes.”

Ethan considers that. “He's on his honeymoon and still micromanaging.”

“Exactly.” I grin. “He also asked us to look out for her. That part actually matters.”

Ethan glances toward the living room where she’s still buried in her laptop. “She seems to be settling in fine.”

“She is,” I say. “That's not nothing.”

Neither of us says the obvious part out loud—that the rule showed up about twenty-four hours too late. We don't need to name it yet. That's not how we operate.

* * *

An hour later I find her in the kitchen, standing at the counter somewhere between working and staring into space. Hair up, bare legs, a little frown like she’s working through something. For a second, I forget what I came in for.

She glances over. “You're doing the thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Where you walk into a room and it suddenly feels smaller.” Her hazel eyes flick over me, amused. “You look relaxed, but you're not. You're always scanning.”

I laugh under my breath and lean against the opposite counter. “Occupational habit.”

“From real estate?”

“From before.”

She doesn't push. I like that about her. Three men trusted my call and didn’t make it back. I stopped telling that story because no one knows what to say to the ending. It’s easier to make people laugh instead.

The kitchen settles into a comfortable quiet I've been moving since I was eighteen—bases, deployments, new cities, new projects. Always the next thing. You stop grieving things properly when you keep moving. I figured that out late. I've got an apartment in Silver Lake I haven't been back to in months. Thursday poker game with guys I've known for years and couldn't tell you much about. A gym where they know my name. It's a good life. I just never quite managed to choose it—I kept going and eventually it was what I had. Vegas feels different. Like somewhere I might actually stop counting the weeks.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

“Shoot.”

“Why do you actually want to be here? In Vegas. Connor said you guys are all based in LA.”

I shrug, keeping it light. “Staying in this sick penthouse for free is pretty nice. Plus the chance to see if this city finally feels like somewhere worth planting roots.”