Page 17 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

I look over at him. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Experience.”

He glances at me briefly, then back at the road. “That answer covers a lot.”

“That’s because I’m efficient.”

His thumb taps once against the steering wheel. “You don’t trust easy things.”

I laugh softly. “I don’t trust men who decide I’m going to dinner with them before I’ve agreed.”

“You came.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You keep saying that.”

“It keeps being true.”

He pulls into the gravel lot outside The Lamb and kills the engine.

I look at the restaurant, all warm golden windows and expensive atmosphere, and sigh. “This feels like overkill.”

“It’s dinner.”

“This is anniversary dinner. Proposal dinner. ‘I’m sorry I committed tax fraud’ dinner.”

He turns toward me. “You narrate everything like this?”

“Only when I’m under stress.”

“You’re stressed?”

“I’m at a restaurant where the butter has aspirations.”

That almost gets a smile out of him.

Almost.

He gets out, comes around, and opens my door again, because apparently, this man is physically incapable of letting me touch a handle myself. I climb out before he can offer his hand.

Inside, the host’s whole expression changes the second he sees Xander.

Recognition.

That tiny brightening people do when they know someone’s name before it’s offered.

“Mr. Harlow,” the host says, and he leads us toward a corner booth with entirely too much eagerness.

I’m aware of the room in pieces as we walk. Dark wood. Soft lighting. Couples leaning toward each other over wine glasses. Low music. The smell of butter and garlic and money.

I’m also aware of my clothes all over again.

Jeans. Tee. Boots that are still a little dusty from the diner parking lot. Hoodie tied around my waist now because the restaurant is warm and I don’t know what to do with my hands.

Women in places like this always seem to know how to sit. How to angle themselves. How to look effortless while clearly having put in effort.