Page 89 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

I go very still.

“Good different.” He tilts his head slightly, studying me the way he'd study a deal that surprised him. “Happy.” A beat. “I don't think I've seen you like that before. Not in a while, anyway.”

I have nothing to say.

Not a single word.

I just stand there in the doorway in Andrew's hoodie, prenatal vitamins hidden in the drawer twelve feet behind me, and look at my brother’s face with absolutely nothing to offer.

He holds my gaze for one more second, then nods once, like he's decided not to push tonight.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

The door closes.

I stand in the hallway for a full minute.

The carpet is beige. There's a small scuff on the baseboard across from me, just below the light switch. I've never noticed it before. Now it’s the only thing I can see because I'm staring at the exact spot where his face was, waiting for my chest to settle.

He said happy.

I turn the word over in my mind.

Not because it's wrong.

Because it isn't.

And I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with a truth Connor saw in thirty seconds that I've been trying not to look at directly for weeks.

The door behind me stays closed.

Inside, three men are exactly where I left them—not asking questions, not filling the silence, just waiting for me to come back when I'm ready.

I exhale.

Press my palm flat against the door.

Then I go back in.

Chapter thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-Two—Riley

The text comes at eight forty-five in the morning.

Connor provides a restaurant name, an address, and a time. Eight o'clock. Dress nice.

I google it before I'm fully awake. Twelve-seat omakase bar, off the Strip. Two-month waitlist. You don't stumble into a place like this. You plan for it, or you know someone, or you've been holding a reservation since February and waiting for the right occasion.

I set my phone face-down on the pillow.

He picked it for me. Not for Sarah. Not for the table. For me—because Connor is the person who once found me sitting in my car outside the only omakase restaurant on my twenty-second birthday, staring at the door after six weeks of saving.

I couldn’t make myself go in.

He didn’t make it a thing. Just handed me his card, told Jules to meet me inside at seven, and said, “You’re allowed to want things like this.”

And that was it. That’s Connor.