Page 216 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

The studio feels smaller.

He stands, too, towering in front of me beneath the dim studio lights.

“I wrote most of it after LA,” he says.

My pulse skips. “The podcast?”

“No.” His gaze drags across my face. “After you.”

Oh.

I don’t know what expression crosses my face, but his entire body softens afterward like he regrets saying it and means it at the same time.

“You make me feel things I haven’t felt in years,” he admits roughly. “That song exists because of that.”

My chest actually hurts now.

This man. This impossible, emotionally constipated man keeps handing me pieces of himself like he doesn’t understand how precious they are.

Before I can stop myself, I reach for him.

My fingers slide into the front of his shirt gently.

“You know,” I say softly, “for someone so terrifying, you’re kind of emotional underneath.”

A rough laugh escapes him. “Don’t spread that around.”

Too late. I already know.

I think he likes that I do.

FORTY

Julian

The internet has officially lost its damn mind.

I know this because Gabe made the mistake of leaving the analytics dashboard open on the kitchen screen this morning and I accidentally saw the words “global engagement spike” and “viral conversion metrics,” which sounds less “music promotion” and more a hostile government operation.

Meanwhile, fans online have decided Willow is either:

A) the downfall of modern civilization

or

B) the next coming of rock-and-roll romance.

No middle ground.

Personally, I think both are flattering.

I’m standing in the kitchen scrolling through edits people have made of us when Willow walks in, hair still damp from the shower.

Bad for my health.

She eyes me suspiciously. “Why are you smiling like that?”

I tilt my phone toward her.