Page 73 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“Hey, Willow,” someone calls from the counter. “You know those guys, right? The ones from the bar the other night?”

I don’t even look up. “No.”

“You were sitting with them.”

“I sit with a lot of people.”

Bill snorts from his booth. “Not like that, you don’t.”

I point at him without turning. “Eat your muffin, Bill.”

He grumbles but takes a bite.

The conversation doesn’t stop. It hasn’t stopped for three days, ever since Friday night. The entire town has decided that I’m somehow involved, which is ridiculous.

I’m not involved. I’m just adjacent.

Unwillingly.

Dangerously adjacent.

“People are saying they’re going to bring a lot of attention here,” another voice says. “That label thing. What’s it called?”

“Redemption Records,” someone answers.

“That’s it. Sounds like trouble to me.”

“Sounds like money to me,” someone else counters.

“And what happens when the money leaves?” Bill adds. “We’re still here.”

There’s a murmur of agreement.

I keep moving, that’s the trick.

If I stop, I’ll get dragged into it, and I don’t have the bandwidth to debate the future of the town while actively trying not to think about a man who kissed me like⁠—

Nope.

Not finishing that thought.

Not today.

I grab a tray, load it up, and move toward the back tables.

Keep busy.

Stay moving.

Don’t think.

But at some point, between clearing plates and refilling drinks, I catch myself rubbing the back of my neck again, tension coiling there like it’s trying to live rent-free.

And the thought slips in, anyway.

Why would he kiss me? Of all people.

Gabe Stockton, who could probably have anyone he wants, anywhere, anytime.