Page 4 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“How fresh are the eggs?” he asks.

I blink. “Egg fresh.”

Leather Jacket snorts. Mr. Blue Eyes ignores him.

“The bacon crispy?”

“If the cook feels ready for that level of commitment.”

Leather Jacket nearly chokes laughing this time.

Blond Business Guy looks entertained enough that he’s clearly enjoying this whole situation.

Mr. Blue Eyes, however, is still watching me like he’s trying to determine whether I’m joking.

“Hash browns?” he asks.

“They exist.”

“Are they good?”

“They’re hash browns.” I raise an eyebrow.

Leather Jacket leans forward, clearly delighted now. “I love this place.”

“I try not to encourage that,” I say.

Blond Business Guy finally finishes ordering.

Mr. Blue Eyes closes the menu. “I’ll take the same.”

I scribble everything down, then I rub the back of my neck again, working out the tension.

This is exhausting.

Not because they’re rude, but because they’re the specific kind of confident that makes the world rearrange itself for them, and I already know one thing about myself.

I don’t rearrange.

I tear the page off my notepad and tuck it into the metal spinner by the kitchen window, then lift my voice just enough to carry over the clatter of plates and the murmur of the lunch rush.

“Lara, I’ve got three orders up. One existential crisis and two bad decisions.”

“Keep talking like that and you can cook it yourself,” she snaps back, though there’s enough amusement in her tone that I know I’m safe, for now.

I lean against the counter, rolling one shoulder and then the other, trying to ease some of the ache out of my neck before I grab the next order. It’s a mistake to look back at them, but I do it anyway, and the second I do, I know I shouldn’t have.

They’re still watching me.

Well, two of them are openly watching me.

Leather Jacket looks thoroughly entertained, like I’ve become the best thing to happen to him all day, and Blond Business Guy has the kind of measured expression that makes it feel like he’s assessing me, weighing everything up, maybe deciding whether I’m an inconvenience or an asset.

And Mr. Painfully Black Coffee…

He isn’t smiling. He doesn’t look irritated, either. He just looks focused in a way that’s somehow worse, like he’s paying close attention to every expression I make and every word that comes out of my mouth, filing it all away somewhere private for later.

It’s unnerving, and I’m not interested in being studied by a man who looks like he’s never once been told no in his life. So, I look away first.