Page 92 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

Then Liam.

Then Andrew.

Then Ethan.

It's three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough that Liam shifts almost imperceptibly beside me, and Andrew goes very still, and I keep my face arranged into something that doesn't confirm anything because there is nothing to confirm and everything is fine.

Connor gets in the car.

Their taillights pull away and Andrew has his hand on the Uber door and I get in and slide across and Liam gets in after me as Ethan hops in the front seat and then we're moving.

Nobody talks.

The city moves past the window, all light and noise and none of it useful.

Liam's knee is pressed against mine. Andrew is on my other side, close, not touching me but close enough that I can feel the heat of him, and none of them say anything, and I can't tell if that's better or worse.

It's not a question anymore.

Connor knows something.

He just hasn't said it yet.

Chapter thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-Three—Riley

Idon't sleep.

I try. I lie there with my eyes closed, counting breaths, counting seconds, counting anything that isn't the conversation I know is coming. The penthouse is quiet in that late-night way where every sound feels louder than it should.

I roll onto my side. Then onto my back. Then onto my side again.

It's useless.

Connor saw enough last night. Not everything. Not the full shape of it. But enough to know something didn't line up. Enough to look at me the way he did at the valet, quiet and focused, already working through possibilities he didn't like.

He didn't say anything then. That's what worries me.

Connor doesn't push until he's sure. He watches. He waits. He lets you hang yourself with whatever version of the truth you're trying to sell him until it stops making sense.

And then he asks.

I stare at the ceiling until the numbers on the clock blur. Two-thirty. Three-ten. Three-forty-five.

By four, I stop pretending sleep is still an option.

I sit up slowly, careful not to make noise, like that matters. The guys have been checking on me all night, quiet knocks and voices through the door, but right now I just want to be alone.

The hoodie is on the back of the chair where I left it last night. I pull it on without thinking, pushing my arms through the sleeves, dragging it down over my hands. It smells faintly like detergent.

Andrew.

I notice it. I don't take it off.

I grab my coffee on the way out, made out of habit more than anything, and step onto the balcony.

The air is cooler than I expect. The city below is quieter, stripped down to its overnight version. I rest my hands on the glass railing and watch the Strip in that in-between state, not quite night, not quite morning.