Page 86 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

He takes it. Our fingers brush.

“Thank you,” he says.

We sit there in silence. Just the sound of water lapping against the dock. The faint pulse of insects starting up for the night.

It’s nice, which is suspicious.

“You don’t seem like the lake type,” I say, eventually.

“What type do I seem like?”

“Expensive rooftop bars. Private clubs. Places where the drinks cost more than my rent.”

“I’ve been to those places.”

“I can imagine.”

“But they don’t do this.”

I glance at him. “This being?”

He gestures vaguely around us. “Quiet. Space. No one expecting anything.”

I huff a laugh. “Yeah. That’s kind of the appeal.”

He takes a sip of his beer. Watches the water. “You listen to music out here?”

“Sometimes.”

He turners to face me. “What kind?”

“Depends on my mood.”

“And right now?”

“I like stuff that makes you feel something,” I say finally. “Not just noise. Not just polish for the sake of it. I like when it’s messy. When you can hear the person behind it.”

His gaze narrows. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Do you?” I challenge.

“I built a career on it.”

“And then walked away.”

The words slip out before I can stop them.

Shit, should I have said that? I don’t think speaking about his old rock star career was the best idea, judging by the cloud over his face now.

“Because it stopped being about the music,” he finally tells me. “I had to go.”

I frown. “That happens?”

“It always happens,” he says. “If you let it.”

“That’s kind of depressing.”

“It’s realistic.”