Page 43 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“This,” I say, “is why people don’t trust rich men.”

Julian grins wider. “I thought it was tax reasons.”

Gabe finally comes down the last few steps.

He moves with the same controlled ease he always seems to have, like he’s never rushed toward anything in his life and doesn’t intend to start now. Up close, he smells clean. Expensive. Citrusy and sweet. His gaze drops to my empty hands, then to Julian already halfway into a side dish like he hasn’t eaten in a week.

“We will pay for that,” Gabe says calmly.

“Wonderful. I’d hate to have to physically fight him in your foyer.”

Julian looks delighted by the idea. “Would you win?”

“Yes.”

He considers me. “You know what? I believe you.”

Gabe reaches into his pocket for his wallet, then glances toward the card slip still tucked under the delivery order in my hand.

“Do you want to come into the kitchen while we sort out payment?” he asks.

No, thank you, I don’t need to step farther into the giant mysterious estate owned by three arrogant men who keep appearing in my life like handsome jump scares.

No, thank you, I have dignity and self-preservation instincts and at least two more deliveries after this.

No, thank you.

Julian is already walking backward deeper into the house with the food bags. “Come on.”

I look at Gabe. “Is he always like this?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It can be.”

Julian gasps softly from halfway down the corridor. “I can still hear you both, and I want it noted that I’m fun.”

“You’re more like a fry thief with good hair,” I call back.

“Still counts.”

Gabe takes the order slip from my hand. Our fingers brush for half a second, and the contact is warm.

I pull my hand back.

He notices.

Everything about Gabe suggests he notices things for a living.

And because apparently my judgment has gone soft from lack of sleep and exposure to nonsense, I follow them.

Just a few steps.

Only because I need the receipt signed.

Only because I’m a professional.