Page 46 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“I’m definitely not.”

“You looked.”

“I have eyes.”

Gabe leans one hip against the island, watching this unfold with interest. “Julian.”

“What? She wants to see it.”

“I don’t.”

“She does,” Julian says to Gabe. “She’s got the same expression people get right before they say no and mean maybe.”

I point at him. “That sentence alone should get you fined.”

Instead of being offended, he rounds the island and stops directly in front of me, all easy energy and terrible ideas.

“Come on,” he says. “Two minutes. You gave me a tour. Now it’s my turn. I’ll show you the good parts.”

“There are bad parts?”

“Yeah, but mostly emotionally.”

Before I can step back, he reaches for my wrist with enough confidence that my body reacts before my brain catches up.

I go very still as his fingers close around my arm.

“You can say no,” he says. “I’ll still be offended, but you can say it.”

I should.

Really, I should.

But now the music is louder, and beyond the doorway I can see the edge of a corridor lined with framed records and black and white photos and movement farther down. Somebody carrying cables. Somebody laughing. The whole place thrumming with energy under the expensive polish.

I’m intrigued, and I can’t help it.

So I sigh, mostly because I’d like the universe to understand I’m going against my better judgment in a way that should count for something.

“Two minutes,” I say.

Julian beams. “I knew you were sensible.”

“That’s not what this is.”

He lets go of my wrist and starts moving.

I follow because I’ve lost a war with myself.

Gabe falls into step on my other side, not close enough to crowd me but close enough to make me aware of him anyway. Which is the problem with men like this. They don’t actually have to do much. They just exist very intensely in space and make it everyone else’s issue.

The corridor beyond the kitchen opens into the heart of the house.

And that’s when I realize this place is even bigger than I thought.

Rooms branch off in every direction. Some old, some clearly renovated. Through one set of windows I can see a recording booth, all glass and soft lights and suspended microphones. Down another hall, there’s a lounge with instruments sitting around like people might have just set them down and wandered off. A stack of road cases lines one wall. Someone carrying a laptop darts past us with a distracted “hey” to Julian.

He salutes with two fingers and keeps walking.