Chapter Eight—Riley
It takes me until midnight to admit I'm not going to sleep.
Eleven days. The ceiling and I have developed a relationship I never signed up for.
Forty minutes of lying there, replaying everything this week has done to my brain—the Harrington dinner, the carafe moment, Ethan's hand over mine in the lobby, Andrew simply existing every morning like a problem I was supposed to have solved by now—and I finally give up.
I throw off the sheet and go hunting for champagne.
Connor keeps a bottle in the second wine fridge. I don't touch it.
Then I do.
The rooftop is one flight up, a private staircase off the far end of the balcony hidden behind the planter boxes.
Liam discovered it on day two. I've only been up here once before, in the afternoon when everyone was out.
Slate tile. Low lighting on a dimmer. A hot tub set into the deck right at the edge, the city dropping away below like someone sliced the world off.
Twenty minutes of hot water and zero men being quietly devastating in my vicinity sounds perfect. I change into my black swimsuit, wrap a towel around myself, and slip out.
The staircase is narrow. The night air is still warm, Vegas refusing to cool down properly. I ease into the hot tub at the edge, set the bottle on the ledge, and let the heat sink deep into my shoulders and neck—everywhere I've been holding tight for eleven days.
That's what this week has been. Things slowly breaking loose. Not just Andrew reappearing. Not just Liam on the balcony with that almost-moment. Not just Ethan refilling my glass without a word or the way his hand felt over mine after dinner.
All of it. Accumulated.
The part I can’t name is that none of it feels like a transaction.
Ethan doesn’t want credit. Liam doesn’t want thanks.
Even Andrew, who has every reason to be staging his apology tour, hasn’t asked me for anything.
I’ve built my whole system around the cost of letting people in. These three aren’t charging.
I pour the champagne and take a long sip.
The rooftop is mine. Everyone is exactly where they're supposed to be.
For three glorious minutes, this is true.
Then I hear footsteps on the stairs.
Liam's head appears first above the roofline.
He takes in the scene—me, the hot tub, Connor's champagne—and his expression cycles through relief, amusement, then goes measured.
“We didn't know where you went,” he says.
“Rooftop.” I gesture vaguely at the obvious.
“In fairness, we didn't know the rooftop was a midnight option.” He reaches the top, arms crossed, grin already forming. “You okay?”
It's not performed concern. Just the real question, asked with those green eyes that don't let you dodge.
“I'm fine,” I say. Then, because my guard has clearly sprung a leak: “I just needed air.”
He nods. “Can we join you?”
We.
I glance past him. Ethan has appeared at the top of the stairs, glasses off, button-down untucked—the most undone I've ever seen him. Behind him, Andrew, one hand on the rail.
All three of them. On my rooftop. At midnight.
My perfect plan officially collapses.
I should say no. I have champagne, a view, and a system that does not involve any of them.
“Sure,” I say instead.
The second they have permission, none of them hesitate.
Liam reaches for the hem of his shirt first. I stare hard at the Las Vegas skyline and do an excellent job of not looking—right up until Ethan follows and I catch the lean lines of his shoulders and chest. Precise. Disciplined. Worse than vanity.
I tip the glass back.
Andrew pulls his shirt off next. I thought I was prepared. I had noted—clinically—that he'd filled out in seven years and filed it under irrelevant.
What I hadn't prepared for was the reality of those shoulders, broader now, the way the low light cuts across muscle and skin. My glass is suddenly very empty.
Liam is already moving.
“We're going to need more champagne,” he announces.
“We've been here four minutes,” Ethan says dryly.
“Exactly.” Liam points at me on his way past. “Don't go anywhere.”
“I literally have nowhere to go.”
“Perfect.”
He's down the stairs before anyone can argue.
The rooftop feels smaller without him. Quieter. The easy buffer he provides is gone, leaving an edge behind. The water suddenly feels hotter.
Ethan steps out of his jeans with quiet efficiency.
“Boxer briefs,” Liam announces the moment he returns, like he's reading from a menu. “Very on brand.”
Andrew follows, lowering himself into the water.
“Classic boxers, Hayes. Predictable.” Then Liam looks straight at me, thumbs already hooked into his own waistband, grin wide and thoroughly enjoying himself. “As for me—”
“Liam.”
“Fair warning—”
“Liam.”
“—I was not anticipating a midnight hot tub situation when I got dressed this morning, or rather when I didn't get dressed this morning, so—”
“Oh my god.”
“—I'm suggesting, purely as a courtesy, that you maybe—”
“I am looking directly at the city of Las Vegas.”
“Wise.” The distinct sound of fabric hitting the deck, then someone entering the water. “You can look now.”
“I wasn't looking before.”
“You were a little bit looking.”
“I was absolutely not—” I turn back. Ethan and Andrew are already in, expressions perfectly neutral. Liam is stretched across the opposite ledge looking thoroughly, undeservedly pleased with himself.
“This is harassment,” I tell him.
“This is transparency.” He tops off my glass without being asked. “Very different.”
Ethan, without looking up: “He's not wrong. Technically.”
“Ethan.”
The corner of his mouth moves. Just barely. “Technically.”
It takes me longer than it should to realize what I'm wearing.
Simple black triangle top bikini. Something I'd worn exactly once before, when no one was home and didn't feel nearly as skimpy then.
What I hadn't factored in was this.
Three men. Eye level. Close enough that the water isn't hiding much of anything.
I adjust, subtle, like it doesn't matter.
It matters.
Liam notices first. Of course he does. His gaze drops for half a second—not crude or slow, just there and back again like he took it in and stashed it somewhere he'll revisit later.
Ethan doesn't move at all.
His attention settles—focused.
Andrew doesn't pretend. His eyes find mine, hold for one beat too long, then move down my body, slow and unhurried, before coming back up.
He shifts closer in the water. The casual drift that brings his knee against mine beneath the surface. It stays there. Not accidental.
He doesn't acknowledge it. Just reaches for his glass.
My pulse kicks anyway.
Liam raises his glass. “To surviving the Harrington investors.”
We drink. The clink feels like a small surrender.
Then Andrew turns his glass slowly in his hand and looks straight at me.
“To bad decisions,” he says quietly.
Not joking.
Nobody moves.
Liam doesn't move. Ethan doesn't move. Andrew holds my gaze—steady, unflinching, like he's daring me to look away first.
I don't.
I drink anyway.