Chapter Five—Liam
The penthouse line rings at ten-thirty on the second night. I'm closest, so I pick it up. I already have a pretty good idea who it is.
I'm right.
“Hey.” Connor sounds like he's calling from another decade. “Just checking in on the place.”
“Place is fine,” I say, leaning against the kitchen counter. Through the doorway I catch Riley cross-legged on the couch, laptop glowing, earbuds in, the corner of her mouth doing that almost-smile thing. “We're all settled in.”
“Good.” Connor pauses, clearly working up to something. “I know I mentioned this before you guys arrived, but I want to make sure we're clear.”
“Okay.”
“Riley.” Another second. “She's my sister. Not a Vegas situation. I know you're all decent guys, but I need it said out loud. She's off-limits.”
I watch Riley shift on the couch, still half-smiling at whatever's on her screen.
“I hear you,” I say easily.
“I mean it.”
“Connor,” I keep my tone light. “I heard you the first time.”
He exhales. “Look… she's had a rough couple of years. She doesn't show it. She'll have you laughing before you realize she might need someone looking out for her. Just… make sure she's okay. That's what I'm really asking.”
“I'll make sure she's okay.” I mean it more than he probably expects.
We talk a few more minutes about the Harrington timeline, the third property numbers, and whether the Wi-Fi is holding up. Connor tells me to say hello to everyone and hangs up.
I set the phone down and look across the penthouse. Riley has stretched out on her back now, laptop balanced on her stomach, bare feet dangling off the armrest. Working. Thinking. With her it's hard to tell.
Ethan steps into the hall as I come out of the kitchen, finishing a call in that precise tone he saves for people who aren't in the room. He hangs up when he sees my face.
“Connor?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I lean against the wall. “The rule is officially in effect. Riley is off-limits, not a Vegas situation, he trusts we're decent people. Sounded like he was reading from notes.”
Ethan considers that. “He's on his honeymoon and still micromanaging.”
“Exactly.” I grin. “He also asked us to look out for her. That part actually matters.”
Ethan glances toward the living room where she’s still buried in her laptop. “She seems to be settling in fine.”
“She is,” I say. “That's not nothing.”
Neither of us says the obvious part out loud—that the rule showed up about twenty-four hours too late. We don't need to name it yet. That's not how we operate.
* * *
An hour later I find her in the kitchen, standing at the counter somewhere between working and staring into space. Hair up, bare legs, a little frown like she’s working through something. For a second, I forget what I came in for.
She glances over. “You're doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Where you walk into a room and it suddenly feels smaller.” Her hazel eyes flick over me, amused. “You look relaxed, but you're not. You're always scanning.”
I laugh under my breath and lean against the opposite counter. “Occupational habit.”
“From real estate?”
“From before.”
She doesn't push. I like that about her. Three men trusted my call and didn’t make it back. I stopped telling that story because no one knows what to say to the ending. It’s easier to make people laugh instead.
The kitchen settles into a comfortable quiet I've been moving since I was eighteen—bases, deployments, new cities, new projects.
Always the next thing. You stop grieving things properly when you keep moving.
I figured that out late. I've got an apartment in Silver Lake I haven't been back to in months.
Thursday poker game with guys I've known for years and couldn't tell you much about.
A gym where they know my name. It's a good life.
I just never quite managed to choose it—I kept going and eventually it was what I had.
Vegas feels different. Like somewhere I might actually stop counting the weeks.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“Shoot.”
“Why do you actually want to be here? In Vegas. Connor said you guys are all based in LA.”
I shrug, keeping it light. “Staying in this sick penthouse for free is pretty nice. Plus the chance to see if this city finally feels like somewhere worth planting roots.”
She studies me for a beat. “Does it yet?”
I meet her eyes. “Getting there.”
That almost-smile of hers breaks into the real thing for just a second. It hits me square in the chest—a little dangerous. Connor warned me she'd make me laugh before I noticed she needed looking after.
I finish my water and set the glass down. “Good talk.”
“Mm,” she says, already looking back at her screen, but still smiling.
I head back to my room telling myself to focus on the Harrington due diligence.
Instead I keep thinking about that smile.
* * *
Andrew comes in from the gym forty minutes later, hair damp, jaw tight, the look of a man who just tried to outrun his own head. Riley’s back working on the couch in the living room which he has to pass to reach the kitchen.
Riley doesn't look up—both earbuds in, fully focused. But as Andrew walks by, close enough that she shifts her legs a little, her fingers pause on the keyboard for half a second.
Then she keeps typing.
Andrew opens the fridge and stands there staring at nothing.
“Connor called,” I say from the table.
Andrew goes still like he's been waiting for this conversation.
“What did he say?” he asks.
I keep my tone casual. “Nothing we hadn't already figured out.”
Andrew holds my gaze a beat—long enough for both of us to understand we're not competing. Not yet. He nods once, grabs a bottle of water, and heads toward his room.
Three guys who just got handed an off-limits rule after the game had already started. One woman who turned a simple phone call into a starting gun.
I've been in tighter spots.
Very few that felt this inevitable.
And I don't walk away from things like that.