Page 29 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

I lean against the doorframe, arms loose, watching it play out.

“Again,” I call, not even bothering to step inside.

The guitarist groans, dragging a hand through his hair, irritated.

“Yeah, yeah,” I add, grinning now, “I know you think you nailed it, but you’re rushing the second bar. You’re getting excited, and it’s killing the groove. Try it like you actually trust the song.”

He gives me a look. Then resets. Plays it again.

And this time, there it is. The difference is subtle, but it lands. The note hangs just a fraction longer, the timing settles, and suddenly the whole thing breathes.

I nod once. “That’s it. See? You don’t hate me.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue, either, which is basically a win.

That’s something people forget. It’s never really about perfection. It’s about feeling something real enough that other people don’t question it. And you can’t fake that, not for long, anyway.

After a few hours of drifting between rooms, throwing out the occasional note, stealing a guitar here, a melody there, I eventually wander back toward the front of the house. My fingers flip my guitar pick lazily between my knuckles, an old habit I’ve never managed to break, especially when my brain’s still half in the music.

Outside, the light’s softened. Late afternoon sliding toward evening, the sun stretching everything out into long shadows across the gravel drive. It’s cooler now, carrying that vibe of small-town life that still feels weirdly unfamiliar after years of noise and crowds and never-ending motion.

And then I see her, walking down the road.

Dog at her side, leash loose in her hand, not worried about anything pulling her off course. Her hair’s up again, messy in that way that’s not trying to impress anyone, a few strands slipping free around her face. Jeans, boots, a top soft and worn that fits her so comfortably my pulse pounds.

Willow.

I don’t even realize I’m smiling until it’s already happened.

Well, that answers that.

I push off the porch, already heading toward her before I’ve fully decided to, because I guess this is just what I’m doing now.

“Hey!”

She turns at the sound of my voice, and the second she sees me, her eyes narrow suspiciously.

“You,” she says, as if the universe has personally inconvenienced her.

I press a hand to my chest. “Wow. That’s how you greet people now? I’m hurt.”

“You’re not people,” she says flatly. “What are you doing loitering on the street?”

“Not yet,” I shoot back easily. “Give me time. I’ve got range.”

Her dog looks at me. She’s already made up her mind, and I’m not passing.

“Who’s this?” I ask, crouching a little, offering my hand, basically negotiating a treaty.

“Daisy.”

“Daisy,” I repeat, nodding seriously. “You look like you make excellent life choices.”

Daisy doesn’t, in fact, agree. If anything, she’s considering violence.

“She bites,” Willow says.

“I respect that.”