Page 119 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

Tommy studies me, a thoughtfulness slipping under the easy humor. “You sure you’re ready for that?”

“No.”

That gets a real laugh out of him.

“Alright,” he says, lifting his coffee in a toast. “At least you’re honest about it.”

Aidan nods once. “Honesty’s useful. As long as it’s followed by something solid.”

“It is,” I tell him.

He holds my gaze. Long enough to make it clear he’s deciding whether he believes me. Then, finally, a small nod.

“Good,” he says.

Tommy exhales the tension that slides past him without sticking. “Great. Everyone’s confident, no one’s panicking, this feels very reassuring for me personally.”

“You’re always panicking,” Aidan says.

“I’m selectively concerned.”

“You’re nosy.”

“That too.”

Tommy turns back to me, grin back in place. “You sticking around, or are you just doing your mysterious walk-through thing where you show up, make everyone nervous, and then disappear again?”

“I might stay.”

“Good,” he says. “I’ve got a guy coming in later who swears he used to tour with you. I’d like confirmation before I decide whether to believe him or throw him out.”

I move on before Tommy can start asking more questions he’s not entitled to answers for and cut through the far side of the square where the flower stalls give way to baked goods and handmade soap. Somebody waves. Somebody else nods. A little girl runs past with a ribbon trailing from one wrist and nearly crashes into my leg before veering away at the last second.

The normalcy of it hits harder than I expect.

Maybe because it stands in such direct opposition to the studio.

To the song.

To the fact that half an hour ago I was singing about ghosts in a room built to make memory louder.

Here, life is simpler. Not easier. Simpler. Bread. Flowers. Dogs under tables. Someone arguing over zucchini.

I’m almost at the far end of the square when I hear Grace Holloway before I see her.

“Well, now, this is interesting.”

I turn.

Grace is standing behind a small side table attached to the bookstore’s outdoor display, arranging paperbacks in neat stacks no one will leave neat for long. She’s got one of those smiles on her face that means she already knows something and wants to watch you pretend she doesn’t.

“Grace.”

“Xander.”

Her gaze drops to the bag in my hand. “Peaches. Domestic.”

I look at the books instead of engaging with that. “Business good?”