Page 189 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

Nina: Some people. Other people are literally making edits of you walking in slow motion.

Willow: THAT ISN’T BETTER.

Nina: Okay, fair.

I stare at the screen, chewing hard on my bottom lip.

Willow: Do you think they’re embarrassed of me?

Nina: Willow, those men look at you like they’d set the world on fire if you asked nicely.

Willow: That sounds unhealthy.

Nina: Probably. Still romantic, though.

A fresh wave of happiness hits me unexpectedly hard.

Because despite everything, a small, horrible part of me still wants to believe her.

THIRTY-FOUR

Julian

I’ve learned a lot of things about Willow Jameson over the last few weeks.

She hums when she’s distracted. She rubs the back of her neck when she’s anxious. She pretends she’s tougher than she is when she feels cornered.

And right now, she’s pacing, which means her brain’s chewing through itself at approximately a thousand miles an hour.

I watch her from the kitchen window.

Outside, the compound gardens shine under the evening lights, the fountain burbling somewhere near the hedges while Daisy tears across the lawn with the kind of joy only dogs and children seem capable of.

Willow’s moving in circles near the garden, arms folded tightly over herself. Distracted, tense, miles away.

She hasn’t relaxed since she got here.

The internet’s been going after her for three straight days while the rest of us try to pretend we know how to contain a wildfire with expensive security systems and carefully worded PR meetings.

Spoiler alert: We don’t.

Behind me, Gabe’s voice drifts faintly from his office upstairs, calm and controlled in that terrifying way he gets when things are actively imploding. Xander’s down in Studio A trying to work frustration out through music loud enough to rattle the walls.

I grab two beers from the fridge and head outside before I can overthink it.

The second the patio door slides open, Willow glances over. “Uh-oh,” she says. “You’ve got that look.”

I hand her a beer. “What look?”

“The one that says you’re about to interfere.”

“Wow.” I crack mine open. “And people say romance is dead.”

A tiny smile flickers at the corner of her mouth.

I fall into step beside her as she resumes pacing. “You know,” I say casually, “most people just buy weighted blankets.”

She snorts softly. “I’m not anxious.”