Page 23 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“What?” I ask.

He leans back, studying me in that too-focused way again. “You do think like that.”

My fork stills. “Like what?”

“Like it matters.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“You notice systems,” he says. “People. Where pressure builds.” His gaze drops briefly to my hands before coming back up. “You don’t just react. You read the room first.”

There’s no reason that should hit as hard as it does.

And yet…

I look down at my plate because I feel too seen and that impacts me more than anything else he’s done tonight.

Before I can figure out why, a burst of laughter cuts across the restaurant from somewhere to my left. “Oh my God. Maggie, that’s him. Xander…”

Every muscle in me goes still.

I turn my head just enough to see Maggie Rivers standing near the bar with two of her friends, all of them dressed like they got ready for the kind of night Redemption Falls can’t actually provide. Her eyes are fixed on Xander like she’s just discovered buried treasure in human form.

What the hell is going on?

Maggie crosses the room before common sense can catch up with her, her friends trailing after her like backup singers in a deeply embarrassing musical.

“Hi,” she says, arriving at our table with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Sorry, I just had to come over because I knew that was you.”

Xander looks up at her with the same cool focus he’s been giving everything all evening. “Did you?”

Maggie laughs as though he’s just gifted her the most charming line she’s ever heard. “You’re Xander Harlow. From The Lonely Ones.”

I stare at him with wide eyes.

“My cousin had posters of you,” Maggie says breathlessly. “Like, all over her room. She was so upset when the band broke up. What are you doing now? Is it true you bought a record label?”

One of Maggie’s friends already has her phone out. The other is staring at him like she might actually forget how language works.

I sit there for one very long second, absurdly aware of myself again. The jeans. The diner tee. The hoodie tied around my waist. My ponytail. The fact that I’m sitting across from a man women apparently used to tape to their walls while I still have a crease in my sleeve from leaning against the coffee machine.

“Can we get a picture?” Maggie asks.

Then one of the girls reaches for his arm, fingers landing lightly against his sleeve, and he lets her.

Is this normal for him?

This attention. These women. The bright eyes and the leaning in and the instant assumption that they’re welcome in his space because they’ve already been there in their heads for years.

I put my fork down.

Maggie finally notices me fully and blinks. “Oh. Hi, Willow.”

Small towns are brutal that way. Nobody has to say the rest out loud. It hangs there on its own.

You? Here? With him?

I smile tightly. “Hi, Maggie.”