Page 14 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

I reach for my coffee. He's not looking at the city anymore.

He's looking at me. Not sideways, directly. The easy looseness of him gone somewhere else entirely, gone still, focused in a way that has nothing to do with the view. His gaze drops once, to my mouth, and comes back up.

I don't move, and neither does he. But he's leaning forward slightly, one forearm on the table between us, and the distance is not much. Not much at all. My chest does something inconvenient. His hand is close to mine on the armrest. I should say something. I am a person with a system.

His phone buzzes on the table.

We both look down at it. The moment between us snaps apart.

He checks the screen, expression shifting into something more focused.

“Harrington,” he says, already pushing to his feet. “I need to take this.”

For a second, it feels like he might say something else.

He doesn't.

Just heads inside, the door closing quietly behind him.

The balcony feels different without him. Too still.

I stay where I am, fingers wrapped around my coffee, staring at the spot where he stood.

That look he gave me—steady, intent—keeps replaying whether I want it to or not.

I should go inside.

I don't move.

Instead, I sit there long enough for the coffee to cool in my hands. Long enough to realize I haven't opened my laptop again.

Enough for one morning.

I push back from the table and reach for the handle.

The door opens first.

Andrew steps onto the balcony.

Of course.

He stops when he sees me. Surprise flickers across his face before he smooths it away.

“Riley.”

My name lands between us, familiar in a way I don't want to examine too closely.

My shoulders pull tight.

“I need five minutes,” he says. His voice stays level. “That's all I'm asking.”

Five minutes used to be dangerous territory.

I meet his eyes.

They're steady, impossible to ignore.

For half a second I'm pulled backward in time, standing in another kitchen, believing explanations meant resolution.