Page 16 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

Riley arrives twelve minutes later.

She wears a dark dress that fits cleanly through the shoulders—simple, nothing designed to draw eyes, yet it does anyway. She greets Harrington first, offers a comment that pulls an easy laugh from him, and claims the open seat beside me without hesitation. Liam settles to her left.

I let myself look once.

She read the room on contact. Made Harrington laugh without effort. I gave her no briefing. She didn’t need one. And that’s going to be a problem.

I open my menu and keep my eyes on it.

She opens her own menu and keeps her focus forward.

“Which one is going to ask where I went to school?” she murmurs, quiet enough that only I catch it.

“The associate. Second course.”

“Mm,” I answer.

I study the appetizer list.

Across the table Andrew engages on the third property acquisition, voice level and professional, the tone he uses when something sits just beneath the surface. Riley mirrors the approach from her own angle—easy smile, genuine attention, nothing in her posture that reveals more than necessary. Two people performing versions of themselves that cautiously exclude each other.

Dinner proceeds like a well-managed deposition.

Questions come. I answer. ROI projections, rezoning details, Eastside timelines. I keep my responses clear and spare. Andrew handles acquisition details with practiced fluency. Liam fields the relationship and vision questions with natural ease.

Riley speaks twice—gentle corrections on the Vegas hospitality corridor, offered as helpful footnotes rather than challenges. The associate writes something down. A principal nods in agreement.

A lull arrives around the second course as conversations splinter.

“—so I told him the view was non-negotiable,” Liam is saying, leaning in like he's letting the whole table in on a secret. “He said everything's negotiable. I said, 'Not the view, Richard. I've seen what you paid for the last one.'”

Harrington's wife laughs, delighted. Harrington himself shakes his head, caught out and enjoying it.

Riley joins in—quiet, head tilting back just slightly, the unguarded version she rarely releases. Then, under her breath, only for me: “He rehearsed that.”

“Twice,” I say. “In the car.”

Her mouth twitches. She doesn't look at me.

Under the table her knee rests approximately two inches from mine. I've been aware of that distance since she sat down. Neither of us has shifted away.

The shift arrives with dessert.

Conversation has loosened under the influence of good wine. I'm wrapping up an exchange with one principal when the comment drifts from three seats down: Patricia Harrington leaning toward Riley with the confident air of someone offering unsolicited wisdom.

“—such a lovely girl. Do you plan to settle down soon? Start a family of your own?”

The table continues its flow, but the question sits among the plates—cheerful, presumptuous, built on the assumption that Riley remains unfinished in that particular story.

Her smile holds steady.

“Pretty settled, actually,” she answers, tone even and bright. “I run my own design studio. It suits me.”

“Of course.” Patricia's nod carries generous understanding. “You still have time.”

I set my fork down. Not anger—anger is wasteful here. I run the calculation fast: she handled it cleanly, rescue is unnecessary, intervention would only create an incident.

I glance up. Liam is already moving, smooth as ever. “Richard, you never did tell me how the Eastside parcel closed—I've been dying to know if you got the seller down.” The table swings toward Harrington, the moment redirected before it can settle. Across the table Andrew has gone very still, jaw tight, eyes fixed on his plate.