Page 2 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

Not locals, that’s obvious immediately. Outsiders spot outsiders easily, and with my accent I stand out just as much as they do.

Locals don’t move the way the three guys are, as if the room automatically belongs to them. They’re tall, dressed like they’ve come from some city, and way too polished for Redemption Falls on a Tuesday afternoon.

One of them is blond and put together like he should be on a business magazine cover.

Another has dark, messy hair and a leather jacket that screams bad ass rockstar.

The third one has dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and the kind of expression that says the world usually does what he wants.

Great.

I already know how this is going to go. Especially once the whispering starts.

“That’s them.”

“Told you they were real.”

“Tommy said they bought Hawthorne House.”

Great.

The mysterious new owners of the old estate have basically become Redemption Falls’ favorite hobby for the past two weeks.

Grace Holloway thinks they’re musicians. Bill insists they’re rich corporate idiots from Manhattan. Half the town seems convinced somebody kinda famous moved in behind those gates.

Personally, I stopped listening after day three. Celebrity gossip has always felt like a problem for people with enough free time to care about celebrities. And these aren’t even the celebrities I grew up with, so it means nothing to me.

I’ve got tables to clear and coffee to pour.

Whoever these men are, they’re still probably about to complain about the menu and tip five dollars like they’re doing charity work.

The hostess gestures toward my section.

Of course, they’re sitting in it. Fantastic.

Because clearly the universe looked down at me today and thought, You know what Willow needs after ten hours of difficult customers? Three extremely attractive men with expensive haircuts and an attitude problem.

The kind of men who go for women who look effortless in silk dresses, not ones who smell of coffee and pancakes and have to tug their shirt straight every five minutes.

I grab the coffee pot and head over, pasting on the diner smile again.

They slide into the booth with the kind of confidence that makes the room feel smaller.

Regular people glance at the menu, scoot into the seat, maybe apologize if they bump the table. These three spread out like they’ve just acquired the place in a hostile takeover.

Blond Business Guy sits closest to the aisle, posture straight, expensive watch glinting under the diner lights. The kind of man who probably uses words like “synergy” unironically.

Across from him, Leather Jacket leans back against the booth, one arm stretched along the seat behind him like he’s already comfortable here. His dark hair is messy in a way that’s definitely intentional, and there’s a permanent hint of a smirk on his mouth.

Then there’s Mr. Blue Eyes.

He sits opposite the others, long legs under the table, shoulders relaxed but somehow still… controlled. Like everything about him is intentional. His gaze flicks around the diner once, taking in the checkered floor, the old jukebox, Bill complaining about syrup three tables over.

Then his eyes land on me.

And stay there.

There’s a split second where I fight the urge to glance down at myself. Apron, curves, the way my shirt always fits a little too close in the wrong places, but I shove it down fast.