Page 142 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

Which I don’t realize until Gabe and I step out into the hall and he says, “You’re good at this.”

“I’m just asking questions,” I say.

“No,” he says. “You’re hearing what matters.”

That does something to me I don’t particularly enjoy, mostly because it feels suspiciously like wanting more.

More of this. More responsibility. More chances to use a part of myself I’ve never had much reason to use before.

I look down at the notebook in my hands. “Maybe.”

He watches me, like he can see the whole thought as it moves across my face.

“Come on,” he says then, gentler. “Let’s go through the logistics before Julian decides every band should promote themselves with flirtation and acoustic madness.”

I snort. “That does sound like him.”

“It should concern you that he’s suggested both already.”

“It concerns me that you let him keep talking.”

“We all have our burdens.”

He leads me upstairs to his office. I should’ve prepared for this.

I didn’t prepare for this.

The room is exactly as horrifyingly organized as I expected.

Every folder lined up. Pens in a holder. Notes stacked. Books squared. Nothing out of place except the coffee cup on the desk, which I assume is his version of letting loose.

I stand in the doorway and take it in.

Then I look at him. “This is worse than the kitchen.”

He closes the door behind us. “That sounds dramatic.”

“That sounds accurate. You could perform surgery in here.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

I point at the desk. “Nobody should have a workspace this controlled unless they’re hiding a body somewhere else.”

He takes his seat like this is a normal thing to be accused of. “That’s a serious allegation.”

“I’m serious.”

“You say a lot of things seriously that would concern a less stable person.”

“I’m counting on you being too organized to snap.”

His mouth curves. “Bold strategy.”

I sit opposite him, still clutching the notebook. “So. Logistics.”

He nods once and turns the laptop so I can see the screen.

For the next hour, we work.