Page 47 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

Not now. Not here.

When she looks up, color is returning to her face, but the rest of her is still catching up—jaw set, expression trying to settle back into composed. Her eyes give her away before she closes them off again.

“You followed me,” she says.

“Yes. I came to check on you.”

The exhale carries frustration with it.

Her gaze drops. My hands are still at her waist and she stays.

“You've been doing this alone,” I say.

“Ethan.”

“I'm not asking you to tell me anything. I just want you to know that I've noticed.”

Quiet settles between us.

I reach up without thinking and my fingers find her jaw, gentle, tilting her chin until she meets my eyes.

She lets me.

In the low light of the corridor her lips part slightly. Inches from mine. If I moved even a fraction it would count as a choice.

Every part of me wants to close that distance.

For a second the room disappears.

I hold.

That takes more effort than it should.

She steps back first and my hand falls away. The space between us feels wrong. Too sudden. Too cold.

“I'm fine,” she says. Quieter this time. Almost a request.

I hold her eyes a moment longer than I should.

“Okay.”

“I should go back.”

“Take thirty more seconds.”

The exhale is almost a laugh. We stand there in silence until her breathing steadies. Then she straightens, adjusts the hem of her dress with one precise movement, and walks back toward the dining room.

I give her a full minute before following.

When I return she is already seated and composed. Harrington hasn't stopped talking. No one looks up.

She picks up her fork. “The bass is excellent.”

I watch her take the bite.

Under the table I send one more message.

Ethan: Don’t answer this. Just nod if you need me to get you out of here.