Page 17 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

Three men. One shared instinct. It rises, then retreats for the same reason, wordlessly.

Riley finishes her wine and turns back to Harrington's wife as though nothing occurred—posture straight, expression composed.

By the time dessert plates clear, the group moves toward the exit with the unhurried ceremony of people reluctant to be the first to leave. I wrap up a final exchange with one principal and turn to find Liam still engaged with the associate.

Riley drifts to my shoulder in the lobby. She glances over once, brief and undemanding. I'm forming a response when Harrington appears for a private word.

“Good to have family in the room.” His gaze sweeps the group and settles on Riley three feet ahead. “Connor's sister is a credit to you all.”

I give the correct response. We shake hands.

When I turn back, Riley is three feet ahead. Her profile stays unchanged, but her fingers press tight at her side—the same controlled tension she held through the dessert course.

I close the distance.

Liam continues talking. Andrew checks his phone.

I settle my hand over hers briefly, long enough to let her know I saw it.

She doesn't pull away.

I hold it a second longer than I planned. Noticing and acting before something breaks. It’s the reflex I kept when I left the ER. It’s what I have instead of the rest of it.

* * *

Back in my room, I open the Harrington file.

I read the same paragraph four times.

This deal closes and it’s the largest thing I’ve ever built. Larger than anything I walked away from in medicine. I need that to still mean something.

I close the file.

Keeping someone off-limits doesn't get easier with proximity. It erodes the boundary between what something is and what you’re starting to want it to be. The decision is professional. Reasonable. Connor's rule was stated clearly. The deal, the timeline, the penthouse dynamics—none survive if caution is abandoned.

I know all of this.

Her hand didn't pull away.

I should be thinking about the rezoning variance on the third property. Two points off. I know the exact figure.

What surfaces instead: the precise quality of her laugh when Liam spoke during the second course. The straight-backed composure she maintained through Patricia Harrington's question. The clean line of her jaw. The way the dress sat across her shoulders. The three seconds in the lobby when her fingers stayed beneath mine.

Nine days of data on her, filed without meaning to.

She reads every appendix. She prepares more than she admits. She laughs less than she allows herself and pulls back the instant anything real threatens to surface.

Stopping should be simple.

I grip the bathroom sink. I stare at the mirror long enough to make a point to myself.

It fails.

I run a cold shower. It changes nothing.

The steam clears. I stop pretending the spreadsheet will get attention tonight.

I get in bed.