Page 139 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

He’s in a dark button-down with the sleeves rolled, no tie, no jacket, looking exactly like a man who could either negotiate a million-dollar contract or ruin my day with one look.

“Hi,” I say, and I hate how small it sounds.

His gaze moves over me once, but not in a way that feels invasive. More like he’s checking that I’m really here.

“Hi,” he says. “You found us again.”

“I had to fight my way past the terrifying gravel.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“It was. I nearly turned back.”

A corner of his mouth shifts. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

Before my face can betray me any further, I step inside and glance around. “Am I early?”

“No. Xander’s in Studio A. Julian’s with one of the bands in the live room.”

“And you?”

“I was waiting for you.”

There’s absolutely no reason those four words should feel loaded.

Unfortunately, they do.

“Right,” I say, very dignified and not at all flustered. “Cool. Normal.”

Gabe’s mouth moves again, almost a smile this time. “You can still leave if this feels like too much.”

I look at him, because Gabe says careful things in a very controlled voice, and if you’re not paying attention, you miss how much he means them.

“I know,” I say.

Then, because I need to hold myself on something more solid than that, I lift the notebook. “I brought ideas.”

His gaze drops to it, snapping into focus in that way it does when he’s interested. “Good.”

That one word shouldn’t be attractive.

A lot of things about this man shouldn’t be attractive.

We walk deeper into the house, past the kitchen and down one of the long halls that leads toward the studios. The place feels different again today. Busier. More real. There are voices somewhere ahead, music bleeding faintly through insulated walls, somebody laughing in the distance, actual work happening.

It should make me feel out of place.

Weirdly, though, it calms me down.

“You’ll meet a few people today,” Gabe says as we walk.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It isn’t.”

“It always is when someone says it like that.”

He glances at me. “They’re artists, Willow. Not a firing squad.”