Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends (Vegas Temptations #3)

Chapter One—Riley

There are exactly three things I don't need in my life right now:

Complications. Men. And whatever is about to walk through that door.

The elevator dings. I've been half-listening for it all afternoon—that particular slowdown when it stops on this floor instead of sailing past. Four days in my brother Connor's penthouse and I've already memorized its patterns: the constant hum of the AC, the way the city lights flicker on around seven, the twelve-second delay before the shower actually gets hot.

Connor undersold it: free rent, killer view, pool access, and only a couple investor dinners a month.

Not to mention uninterrupted silence and the best sleep I've had in two years. No looming deadlines except my own, just me, my laptop, and a pool deck with furniture that costs more than everything I own back home. Home is currently Portland. A studio on the third floor. Good light, one window that sticks, a coffee shop on the corner that’s been getting my order slightly wrong for two years.

I’ve never corrected them. At some point it just became mine.

I close my laptop. Straighten my shirt. Tug my ponytail a little tighter—possibly the most effort I'm willing to invest.

The deal is simple. Connor's partners need a place to stay after their hotel fell through. The penthouse has plenty of room. I said yes because the math worked. Nobody asked me to play hostess. I'm basically a very well-compensated ghost.

I'm not even entirely sure what these guys actually do. Some luxury real estate thing. Big deal with old-money investors. They need a polished Vegas base for a couple months, and apparently my existence here checks some invisible box.

Useful for once.

The elevator opens.

The first one steps out and extends his hand before I finish pulling the door wide.

“Ethan Cole.” Firm grip, exact eye contact. Button-down in Las Vegas in March, collar still buttoned, hair combed like it has a job to do. His eyes behind the glasses are a cool blue that doesn't invite small talk. “You must be Riley.”

His gaze holds half a second too long—clinical, thorough, and not entirely professional.

“I must be,” I reply. My breath snags.

He nods once, like I've confirmed a data point, and steps inside.

Behind him, the second one flashes a grin that should probably come with a warning label.

“Liam.” No last name needed—the smile has been closing deals for years.

Broad shoulders, light brown hair, stubble that looks careless but probably isn't. He looks like the kind of man who's heard “yes” so often he'd be genuinely surprised by anything else.

And damn, he's gorgeous. Information I did not need to notice.

But those green eyes are busy. Under the easy charm, he's clocking everything.

“Connor's told us a lot about you,” he says, voice warm and teasing.

“Good things, hopefully.”

“Mostly.” That grin deepens, a smile that makes bad ideas feel like excellent ones.

He lifts the biggest bag effortlessly and moves past me, close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne and the awareness that this man is going to be a problem.

He sweeps the penthouse with one slow glance—the view, the layout, the golden Vegas skyline burning through the windows. “Nice place.”

“It's Connor's,” I say.

“Right.” He sets the bag down, still smiling. “Of course it is.”

Ethan has already moved to the windows, hands in his pockets, reading the city the same way he just read me.

And then the third man steps through the door.

My body recognizes him before my brain catches up.

The drop in my stomach is instant. Seven years vanish in less than a second. Nothing has changed—not the line of his jaw, not the way he carries himself, not the way my pulse still betrays me.

He looks good. Better than he has any right to. Dark hair a little longer, shoulders broader, that same quiet intensity in his brown eyes. He's filled out, settled into himself. Less boy, more man who knows exactly how much space he takes up.

He sees me at the same moment.

The room keeps moving—Liam still talking, Ethan still at the window looking down at the city forty floors below—but between Andrew and me, everything stops.

My stomach does another unwelcome dive.

Andrew Hayes. Connor's business partner. Staying here. In this penthouse. For weeks.

I never asked for names. Connor never gave them. I made sure he never knew the details—never introduced Connor to Andrew, never said more than “some guy from college” before I shut the whole mess down and moved to Portland. Connor knew I'd been hurt. He didn't know by who.

Liam has gone quiet. Ethan has turned from the window. Andrew's hand flexes at his side like he's stopping himself from reaching out. His mouth opens —

I turn on my heel and walk straight to my bedroom.

Not running. That distinction matters. I walk—controlled, measured—like I suddenly remembered something important I need to grab. Nothing to see here. Everything is completely fine.

The door closes behind me. I lock it.

I stand with my back against the wood, heart hammering, and try to find my lungs again.

Okay. So. Andrew Hayes is one of Connor's partners. He just walked in looking like that after seven years, after everything, and I didn't say a single word. Not even a polite “hi.” I just turned and retreated like a champion of emotional regulation.

This is fine.

Three men. One penthouse. Ten weeks.

No way this ends clean.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes.

I had four perfect days—silence, room service, that ridiculous pool, the luxury of not thinking about anything that hurt. A good, practical plan. Then the universe dropped Andrew through the door like a punchline I didn't see coming.

His voice comes through the wood, quiet.

“Riley.”

I go completely still. Back against the locked door, my own heartbeat suddenly too loud for the room.

Seven years, and my body still knows that voice. He spent one stupid night with someone else then vanished. Proof I didn't need people who leave. I’d already learned that lesson at sixteen. Andrew just confirmed it.

I don't answer.

But I don't move either.