Page 46 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

I didn't.

I wanted to see her.

That's the problem.

Halfway through dinner she's already declined the Beaujolais twice. Plausible excuses. Early morning. Client deadline. Her bread roll has moved from one side of her plate to the other without getting smaller. She hits every mark perfectly.

Too perfectly.

Harrington launches into the same 1987 story I've heard twice before. Riley listens, then asks the exact right question at the exact right moment. Harrington laughs, surprised and pleased, and Liam half-smiles while Andrew catches my eye across the table with quiet amusement.

That question required actual preparation. She'd been paying attention to Harrington when the rest of us had filed the 1987 story under ambient noise. She came prepared. I noted it. That's what draws me to her—not her appearance, but what she consistently chooses to do with her attention.

Under the table I pull out my phone.

Ethan: Are you okay?

She feels the buzz, checks it with practiced calm, then looks up at me for half a second before typing back.

Riley: Yes. Stop looking at me.

I type again.

Ethan: I'm not looking at you. I'm watching you not eat. There’s a difference.

Her reply comes fast.

Riley: That's not better, Ethan.

Liam sets his bourbon down and glances across the table at Riley. Two seconds. Then away again. Half a second too long to be casual. He's been doing this all evening—quiet checks, timed with the patience of someone who already knows the answer.

Liam knows something.

Minutes after the entrées arrive, Riley goes pale.

It happens fast. Fork down with precision. Jaw tight. Two measured breaths. The control scares me more than panic would.

“Excuse me,” she says smoothly. She folds her napkin, stands, and walks toward the back without looking back.

The table keeps moving. Harrington shifts to 2028 projections.

I track the time. Two minutes.

I wait outside the restroom door. Long enough to hear water run, then stop. Until the silence after feels different.

The door swings open. Riley steps out fast, head down, one hand braced lightly against the wall, and walks straight into me.

Her body hits mine. My hands move on instinct, one settling at her waist, the other catching her elbow to steady her.

A jagged inhale. Her fingers tighten against my shirt.

Closer than I expected. I feel her breath against my collar, unsteady.

My hands stay at her waist longer than necessary. Her body heat bleeds through the fabric. I know exactly how easily I could pull her closer.

That sound again.

It goes straight through me. Rough. Unsteady. Heat punches low in my abdomen, thick and immediate. I lock it down before it shows.