Page 138 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

Having a day off should feel restful. That’s the theory, anyway.

In practice, it means I’ve been awake since seven, cleaned my kitchen for no reason, reorganized the record shelf twice, and walked Daisy long enough that she’s currently passed out on my couch like she pays bills here.

I’m standing in front of my closet now, staring at three nearly identical pairs of jeans like one of them is going to magically reveal whether I’m underdressed for a visit to a recording compound full of famous people and whatever exactly I’ve become in relation to the three men who run it.

The answer, unfortunately, is no.

All three pairs are jeans.

All three say the same thing, which is: Willow Jameson still has no idea what she’s doing.

“Helpful,” I mutter.

Daisy cracks one eye open at the sound of my voice, judges me silently, then goes back to sleep.

I drag on the darkest pair and a fitted black tee, twist my hair up, pull it down again, leave it half up instead, and regret caring.

This is stupid.

I’m not going there for a date.

I’m not going there for whatever the opposite of a date is when you’ve already slept with the men involved.

I’m going there to work. Which is a very adult and normal sentence.

If I keep repeating it, I might even believe it.

By the time I get in the car, I’m doing that thing where my stomach feels tight for no good reason.

It’s not just them. It’s the whole thing.

The possibility of it.

The fact that I liked what we talked about over dinner. Liked it enough that I spent part of yesterday jotting down ideas on the back of an order pad when I was supposed to be refilling coffee.

I can’t remember the last time something outside my regular life grabbed me like that. Not because I hate my life; I don’t. I love the diner, most days. I love knowing where things belong.

But this feels different.

Bigger.

Like standing near a door I didn’t even know was there and realizing it might open if I push on it.

That should probably be inspiring.

Instead, it mostly makes me want to throw up a little.

The Hawthorne House looks smug when I pull up.

I know houses can’t actually look smug, but this one manages it anyway. Big old stone thing sitting behind its trees and gates like it’s fully aware people talk about it in town.

Which they do. Constantly.

I grab my notebook, lock the car, and head up the drive before I can decide to be a coward.

The front door opens before I knock.

Gabe.