Page 42 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

Then back to my face.

“Willow.”

I tighten my grip on the bags. “No, actually, let’s not do this. I’m dropping off food, someone is paying me, and then I’m leaving before the house reveals a ballroom or a butler or another deeply unnecessary rich person feature.”

One of his brows lifts. “We don’t have a butler.”

“Well, thank goodness. I was worried things might be getting ridiculous.”

The entrance hall is obscene. That’s the only word for it.

The ceiling is easily twice the height of my entire living room. There’s polished dark wood under my boots, a chandelier overhead the size of a small satellite, and windows tall enough to give a person a crisis about their own tax bracket.

The old bones of the house are still there, the carved banisters and crown molding and that slightly haunted elegance, but now everything’s been restored and warmed and made expensive in a way that feels almost rude.

And that’s just the entry.

Beyond Gabe, through an archway, I can see movement. People crossing halls. Someone carrying what looks like a guitar case. Another person with a headset and a tablet moving fast enough to suggest there’s a schedule and everyone in this building fears it.

I narrow my eyes.

I knew they were setting up some kind of label out here. I didn’t realize they meant this.

Before I can say anything else, a voice cuts across the room from somewhere behind a wall. “Please tell me that’s food and not another contract.”

Julian appears like he was summoned by the scent of carbohydrates.

He comes around the corner in a black tee and dark jeans, hair messy in that ridiculous way that should look lazy but somehow doesn’t, grin already in place the second he sees me.

“Well,” he says with entirely too much delight, “this is becoming a pattern.”

I deadpan at him. “You say that like I’m stalking you, which feels rude considering I’m the one carrying your dinner.”

He takes two of the bags from my hands, glancing inside one.

“I’m not saying stalking,” he says. “I’m saying fate.”

“It’s not fate. It’s fried chicken.”

“Same energy.”

He pulls open one container right there in the foyer and steals a fry before I can stop him.

I stare. “Did you just start eating before paying?”

Julian chews, completely unbothered. “Mm. Yes.”

“You still have to pay for that.”

Gabe’s mouth definitely twitches this time.

Julian waves a fry vaguely in my direction. “Willow, I need you to know how much I respect that even in a house this size, under these circumstances, you remain committed to the principle of financial transaction.”

“I’m committed to not getting fired.”

“Fair,” he says, and steals another fry. “But in my defense, if death comes for me tonight, I want it known that I went out with decent seasoning.”

I rub the back of my neck and look at the ceiling for strength.