Page 120 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“Better than ever.” She leans in. “You know, mysterious men with tragic faces are excellent for foot traffic.”

“I’ll alert the tourism board.”

“You joke, but I’m serious.”

“I know. That’s what makes it dangerous.”

Grace laughs and starts straightening a stack that doesn’t need it. “You look different.”

That gets my attention. “How?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Less dead behind the eyes.”

I stare at her.

She smiles wider. “I mean that kindly.”

“Impressive skill.”

“It is. Ask anyone.”

I should leave. Instead I say, “You always this subtle?”

“No. Why waste the effort?”

Fair.

She tilts her head, studying me the way older women do when they know perfectly well they’ve earned the right. “Something’s moved.”

I don’t answer.

I don’t have to.

Her gaze goes soft in a way that somehow feels more invasive than if she’d smirked. “Good.”

By the time I circle back toward the square’s center, the edge is a little softer. Not gone. Nothing that moved in that studio is gone. But it’s manageable now. Contained enough to carry.

The song is still there waiting for me.

So is everything underneath it.

Josiah. Dylan. The stage. The silence after.

And Willow, whether I want her in the middle of all of that or not.

Especially because I do.

I stop near the fountain and look out over the market one more time. Over the locals and the stalls and the easy noise of a town that keeps insisting on being real no matter what gets built around it.

Then I pull my phone from my pocket, open my notes, and type the bridge before it can disappear.

I built a house from wires and locked doors.

Still wake up hearing you in the rain.

TWENTY-ONE

Willow