Page 144 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

Gabe closes the laptop and looks at the notebook in my hands. “You realize this is more than just a few ideas.”

I glance down at it. “I realize I wrote like a deranged raccoon, yes.”

“I can read it.”

“That makes one of us.”

He folds his arms. “Willow. You could do this. For real.”

I laugh softly instead, because that’s easier than letting the moment hit where it wants to. “That seems wildly optimistic.”

“It isn’t.”

“You say that like you know.”

“It’s based on evidence.”

I shake my head, but I can’t quite stop smiling.

Outside the office window, I can hear faint music from downstairs. Someone running a verse over and over. Drums joining in. The whole house breathing with it.

I look down at my notes again, then back at Gabe. At the terrible, obsessive neatness of his office. At the focus in his face. At the way this whole day has felt more natural than it should’ve.

“It still might not last,” I say.

The words slip out before I can stop them. He doesn’t pretend not to understand.

“No,” he says. “It might not.”

I swallow.

He holds my gaze. “But that doesn’t make it less real now.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Gabe

Irealize she’s gone quiet a second too late.

I’m still halfway through a thought, mapping out how her suggestion shifts the rollout timeline, where we’d need to adjust positioning to support it, when the silence finally registers as something purposeful rather than incidental.

I look up.

Willow isn’t looking at me.

She’s looking at my desk. More specifically, at the notebook I left open.

There’s a brief, unhelpful moment where I consider whether closing the distance fast enough would make a difference.

It wouldn’t.

She’s already seen it.

“Gabe,” she says softly.

I move anyway, stepping in and closing the notebook with a flat press of my hand.

“It’s nothing,” I say, because it’s easier than explaining.