Page 154 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

He’s too pretty in the dim light. Too soft around the edges right now. No smirk. No performance. Just warm hazel eyes and concern he isn’t trying hard enough to hide.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

That catches me off guard. “For what?”

“For the ambush. For the drama. For the fact that every time you get close to us, another door opens and something ugly falls out.”

I swallow. “That’s very poetic for someone who makes jokes about emergency candy.”

His hand lifts, giving me plenty of time to pull away.

I don’t.

He brushes his fingers along my cheek, light and careful, like I’m something he doesn’t want to startle.

“You can walk away,” he says. “Anytime. From the house. From the label. From us. I don’t want you thinking you’re trapped in this just because we’re all emotionally damaged and annoyingly attractive.”

I laugh for real, then, even though my eyes sting. “Annoyingly attractive?”

“Objectively.”

Julian leans in and his mouth touches mine, warm and gentle. Almost careful. Like he’s trying to prove he can be. Like this kiss isn’t about taking anything from me but giving me somewhere to land.

My fingers curl into his shirt before I realize I’ve moved.

He exhales against my mouth, and the sound is so unexpectedly vulnerable that I kiss him back harder.

I know this is crazy, and that I keep losing myself in this, but I just can’t seem to help it.

TWENTY-SIX

Xander

Ishould hit him.

That’s the first thing my body wants.

Seeing Dylan standing in my entrance hall as if he belongs here, every instinct I’ve spent years honing into restraint goes feral all at once. My hands clench hard enough my knuckles ache. My jaw locks so tight I can feel it behind my eyes.

And the worst part?

He looks older. Worn in ways I recognize too easily, which somehow pisses me off more.

“You’ve got about ten seconds,” I say, “to explain why you’re in my house.”

Dylan stares back at me with the exact same blue eyes I’ve spent my entire life trying not to see in mirrors.

“Still dramatic,” he says.

Still stupid enough to poke the bear.

I take a step toward him before I can stop myself.

Gabe moves into my peripheral vision, enough to remind me there are witnesses and consequences and fucking staff somewhere in this house listening to every word.

“You don’t get to walk in here,” I say. “You don’t get to show up after years like none of it happened.”

Dylan’s expression flickers.