Page 29 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

* * *

Three weeks in and I've gotten good at it.

The second Harrington dinner is on Friday. I sit across from a man named Gerald who works in legal and spends forty-five minutes explaining why he doesn't trust digital contracts. I nod at the right moments. I ask the right questions. I am exactly what Connor needs me to be.

At some point, reaching for the bread basket, my hand and Andrew's arrive at the same time. Third time this week —pen, carafe, now this. He pulls back first. Always does. Gerald doesn't notice.

Ethan does. I catch him watching from the end of the table—just for a second, eyes moving from my hand to Andrew and back. When I glance over he's already looking at his plate.

He eats his dinner and says nothing for the rest of the night. I keep waiting for it. He doesn't. That's the part that follows me home.

Back at the penthouse I change out of the dress and sit on the edge of my bed. I should check the calendar. Block the calls around dinner number three. Figure out what I'm supposed to wear to a real estate gala on the strip with three men who've seen me in considerably less.

I open the planner.

My eyes land on the little red dot that should have appeared four days ago.

Late.

Stress, I tell myself. The dry heat. The recycled air. The complete absence of anything resembling a normal sleep schedule. Vegas does this to people. Bodies go off rhythm here. It doesn't mean anything.

I close the planner and set it on the nightstand.

It doesn't mean anything.

I repeat it until the words almost feel true.

Chapter twelve

Chapter Twelve—Liam

It's been four weeks and the pool deck is quiet on a Saturday afternoon, nothing but the soft slap of water against the tiles.

I spot Riley the second I step outside. She's stretched out on one of the lounge chairs in a simple pink bikini, laptop balanced on her thighs, sunglasses on, hair twisted up off her neck. The Vegas sun is brutal, but she looks like she belongs here—legs crossed at the ankles, one foot bouncing slightly like she's trying to focus on work and failing.

I grab two iced coffees from the outdoor fridge and head her way.

“Figured you might want backup that doesn't come with red annotations,” I say, setting one cup on the small table beside her chair.

She doesn't look up right away. “I'm working.”

“Riley.” I drop into the lounge chair next to hers. “It's Saturday. In Vegas. There's a pool literally three feet away.” I gesture at it like it might be news to her. “Please. Take a break. Let's have some fun.”

“Some of us have deadlines.”

“Some of us have a perfectly good Saturday and absolutely no excuses.” I stretch my legs out, letting my knee almost brush hers. “How's the nightmare client?”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Still delusional.”

“Still sending thumbs-up emojis?”

“He graduated to a smiley face. With sunglasses.”

I laugh, real and sudden, and for a second it feels easy again—the way it did weeks ago before the hot tub turned everything into a minefield. “You're too nice. I would have sent him a mirror.”

Riley finally glances over, sunglasses sliding down her nose just enough for me to see those hazel eyes. “Careful. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“Did it?” I press a hand to my chest. “I'm just deeply passionate about typography.”