Page 10 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

And that might be the most interesting thing about her.

My body reacts before I can stop it. Those curves… I’m hard just looking at her.

My cock pulses with need.

And yeah, that’s a problem. But also, maybe, exactly the reason I’m here.

She glances up, catches my stare, narrows her eyes a fraction. Doesn’t blush, doesn’t look away. That mouth twists, sardonic. She’s already heard every line I might muster and found them all lacking.

I slide onto a stool at the counter. She finishes whatever story she’s telling the regular down the way, pours me a coffee without asking. Black.

As she slides it toward me, she finally looks up fully.

The smile disappears from her face.

“Willow.”

Her name feels too easy in my mouth.

She straightens, arms crossing loosely, chin tilting just enough to make it clear she’s not impressed. “You again.”

Her tone hasn’t changed. Still snappy. Still unimpressed.

I take a sip of the coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.” She gestures vaguely toward the door. “Men like you don’t usually come back to places like this. Even for jackets.”

Men like me.

I set the mug down, fingers resting against the ceramic. “And what kind of man is that?”

Her eyes flick over me. “The kind that leave big tips and bigger messes behind them.”

A corner of my mouth lifts. “Oh yeah?”

“Money which you’re taking back, by the way.” She rolls her eyes. “That was ridiculous.”

I study her. Take in the set of her shoulders, the way she plants her hands on the counter, bracing for impact. She expects a fight and is already halfway into it.

She has no idea who she’s dealing with.

“No.”

Her expression tightens. “No?”

I lean forward, resting my forearms against the counter, closing just enough distance to shift the air between us. “I don’t take things back once I’ve decided on them. That includes money. That includes you arguing about it.”

Her eyes flash. “I’m not something you get to decide.”

My gaze drops, taking in the curve of her waist where her apron ties, the way her shirt pulls when she moves, the shape of her beneath fabric that does absolutely nothing to hide her.

Christ.

Heat settles enough that I have to anchor myself before I do something reckless.

I look back up at her.

“You’re right. You’re not something I decide on.” A beat. “You’re something I pursue.”