Page 19 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

His gaze settles on me, cool and level and too intent. “You’re tired, hungry, and wound tight enough to bite someone. Wine will help.”

Martha makes a sound that’s suspiciously close to a laugh.

I point at her. “You’re a professional. Act like it.”

“Mmhmm,” she says, writing down the order. “I’ll bring bread, too. For everyone’s safety.”

She leaves before I can throw a napkin at her.

I sink back into the booth. “I cannot believe this is my life.”

Xander leans against the seat like none of this rattles him even a little. “You’ll survive.”

“That remains to be seen.”

There’s a pause while I glare at the candle between us, mostly because it feels safer than looking directly at him for too long.

Martha returns with water, wine, and a bread basket that smells so good I immediately need it.

She pours the wine before I can stop her and gives me one quick look that says she will absolutely be speaking to me about this later. Then, she disappears again.

I pick up the wine glass and take a sip.

It’s annoyingly good. Amazing, even.

Xander watches me as he swirls the wine in his own glass. “You hate it less than you want to.”

“I hate that you’re pleased with yourself.”

His expression doesn’t really change, but there’s a quiet sort of satisfaction there, all the same. “You’ll live.”

I tear off a piece of bread. “You keep saying that like I’m one dramatic statement away from collapse.”

“You are.”

I use the bread as a shield while I look at the menu, and that’s when I nearly choke.

“This is a ridiculous amount of money for chicken,” I say.

“If you order the chicken, that’s between you and God.”

I look up. “Do you ever hear yourself?”

“Yes.”

“And somehow you still continue.”

He takes a sip of wine. “Usually.”

I look back at the menu, trying to act like I’m not conscious of him watching me. It doesn’t work. I can feel it anyway, his attention moving over my face, my hands, the hoodie tied around my waist like he’s taking inventory of every detail I’d rather he didn’t notice.

“You can stop staring,” I say without looking up.

“I could.”

“But you won’t.”

“No.”