Page 165 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

Julian

She’s so easy to be around.

That’s probably the problem. Or one of them, anyway.

Willow drives with one hand on the wheel and the other pulling fries out of the bag between us. The windows are cracked just enough to let cool air move through the car, and late afternoon sunlight keeps catching in the loose strands of hair that escaped whatever battle she fought with it this morning.

I’ve spent most of my adult life around people trying very hard to be something interesting or important.

Willow is the exact opposite of that, and that makes her impossible to look away from.

She pulls up outside another delivery stop and glances at the receipt. “Okay, last delivery. One turkey club, one salad, and apparently a milkshake with no whipped cream because joy is dead.”

“That feels boring.”

“It feels suspicious,” she corrects. “What kind of person orders a milkshake and rejects whimsy?”

“I admire how invested you are in dairy.”

I grin and climb out after her.

Outside smells of cut grass and warm pavement. Somewhere down the block somebody’s mowing their lawn with the kind of commitment only small-town dads possess.

Willow balances the tray against her hip while trying to shove the car door closed with her foot.

I reach past her and do it for her before she can lose the fight.

“Thank you,” she says.

“You looked seconds away from declaring war on a Honda.”

“It started it.”

I laugh softly and take the drinks carrier from her before she can object.

We drop off the food to a woman who spends a full two minutes staring at me before finally blurting, “You’re prettier in person.”

Willow is wheezing beside me by the time we make it back to the car. “She assaulted you with compliments,” she says, still laughing.

“I feel objectified.”

“You should. That was intense.”

I slide back into the passenger seat and look over at her.

Her cheeks are pink from laughing. Her eyes brighter than they were earlier, and I know I’m in trouble. Because the chemistry between us has shifted sometime in the last few hours from flirtation, becoming heavier.

Closer.

Every time her hand brushes mine reaching for fries, I notice it. Every time she looks at me too long before looking away again, I notice that, too.

We park behind the diner now, the lot mostly empty except for Lara’s truck and a beat-up sedan that looks held together by spite.

Willow leans back in her seat with a groan. “I smell like fries.”

“I think you smell nice.”

“You flirt a lot for a man emotionally avoiding his entire household,” she says.