Page 33 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“Probably,” I agree.

I don’t move.

Neither does she.

Then she shakes her head, correcting herself for even pausing, and turns away. “Goodnight, Julian.”

“Night, Willow.”

FIVE

Willow

“So, let me get this right,” my older sister starts, staring at me like I’ve grown an extra head or something. “Last week, you spilled food on him, and he asked you out to dinner, and gave you this much of a tip?”

Nina’s holding the receipt between two fingers like it might be contagious.

Across from us, Grace Holloway pushes her reading glasses down her nose and peers at it again, even though she’s already seen the number twice and reacted the exact same way both times: with the kind of delighted fascination usually reserved for scandal, celebrity divorces, and somebody wearing white to the Autumn Harvest Fair.

“Yes,” I say, for what’s now the fifth time in the last twenty minutes. “That’s exactly what happened.”

Nina looks from the receipt to me, then back to the receipt again, like maybe the numbers will rearrange themselves into something more reasonable if she just commits to disbelief hard enough.

“They tip like this in New York?” she asks.

“They tip like this when they want to make a woman deeply uncomfortable.”

Grace lets out a soft laugh and settles back in her chair with her tea. “Honey, there are much worse problems than attracting the interest of a wealthy, gorgeous man.”

I glare at her over the rim of my coffee. “You’re using a very generous definition of the word ‘problem.’”

Holloway Books & Coffee is warm in that way only old bookstores and coffee shops can be, all soft lighting and mismatched chairs and shelves packed too full with books that smell faintly like dust and vanilla. The espresso machine hisses every few minutes behind the counter, and somewhere over near the mystery section, two older women are discussing a casserole recipe with the intensity of a courtroom cross-examination.

Which is why I came here on my afternoon off. To sit with Nina, drink overpriced coffee, and not think about three men who have somehow managed to become a regular nuisance in my life in less than a week.

Unfortunately, Grace Holloway exists, and Grace Holloway treats gossip the way some people treat cardio.

Nina drops the receipt onto the table and leans back in her chair. “I still don’t understand why you haven’t used it.”

“Because it feels weird.”

“It’s money.”

“It’s emotionally manipulative money.”

Grace snorts into her tea. “Emotionally manipulative money. That’s a new one.”

“It is,” I insist. “Normal tips don’t make you feel like you’ve accidentally signed a contract with the devil.”

Nina grins. “And yet you’ve kept it folded in your wallet all week instead of throwing it away.”

“That’s because I’m still deciding whether to be offended or insulted.”

“Those are the same thing.”

“Not emotionally, they aren’t.”

Grace taps one painted nail against her mug. “Sweetheart, I own a bookstore café in a small town. I’ve watched women cry over men for twenty-seven years. Trust me when I say the money isn’t the dangerous part. It’s the eye contact.”