Page 88 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

He's three steps past the kitchen when he stops and turns back.

“You got any sparkling water? Sarah wants some for the road.”

“I'll get it,” I say—too fast.

But Connor is already moving toward the kitchen, the direct path that takes him right past the counter.

I get there first. Barely.

I open the refrigerator and pull two bottles from the back shelf. When I turn around, Connor is standing at the counter, one hand resting casually on the edge. Six inches from the drawer handle. Close enough that one wrong move would end this.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the bottles. He's looking at me, not the counter. Something crosses his face—not suspicion, just that particular Connor focus, the one where he's noticed something but hasn't named it yet.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

He holds my gaze one beat longer than comfortable. Then: “Okay.” He tucks the bottles under his arm. “Andrew has my files?”

“Should be on the desk.”

He disappears down the hall.

I put both hands flat on the counter and let out a slow breath.

Behind me, the living room stays perfectly quiet. Liam's thumb has stopped moving on his phone. Ethan hasn't turned a single page.

Connor comes back with the folder tucked under his arm, looking satisfied.

“Got it.” He scans the room one last time. “You all good for the week? Anything you need before Monday?”

“We're good,” Andrew says.

“Ethan?”

“Nothing urgent.”

Connor nods. He looks at me again. “You eating? Sleeping?”

“Yes and sometimes.”

“Classic Riley.” He shakes his head, smiling, and picks up his bag. “We’ll do a proper dinner Friday. Tonight’s just a quick stop.”

“Looking forward to it. Good luck catching up after your ten-week honeymoon,” I say.

“Don't remind Sarah. She's already worried about her inbox.” He heads for the door. I follow because that's what you do. Like this is just a normal late-night stop-in.

He opens the door.

Steps into the hallway.

Reaches back for the handle.

Stops.

He turns and looks at me. Not the quick scan from earlier. This is slower. Steadier. His gaze drops briefly to the oversized hoodie I'm wearing, like he's clocking something he can't quite name.

“You look different,” he says.