Page 9 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

I glance down at the receipt.

Then I stop.

Because the tip is absurd.

Not generous. Not kind. Absurd.

I stare at the number, sure I must be reading it wrong, but no, there it is, clear as day, sitting on the line like it’s completely normal to leave that much money behind after breakfast and mild public humiliation.

I look at the door again, then back at the receipt.

Who is he?

My jaw tightens. I fold the receipt and shove it into my apron a little harder than necessary.

“Men like that,” I mutter under my breath as I grab the coffee pot again. Too used to getting what they want.

I look at the jacket, then toward the door one last time before I force myself to turn away.

Because I have tables to clear, coffee to pour, and exactly zero intention of spending the rest of my shift thinking about a man with cold blue eyes and impossible confidence.

Unfortunately, judging by the way my pulse still hasn’t settled, intention and reality are shaping up to be two very different things.

TWO

Xander

There are very few things that stick with me.

Most people come and go without leaving much of an impression. Conversations blur together, cities fade into each other, deals close and disappear into the next one. I built my life on that. On moving forward, on not looking back, on keeping everything clean and controlled.

The fact that I’ve spent the last two days thinking about a waitress in a small-town diner is inconvenient.

I rest my hand on the steering wheel, thumb tapping once against the worn leather before I still it. I don’t fidget. I don’t linger. And yet here I am, engine idling, staring at a place that, before the other day, I hadn’t stepped into in over a decade, feeling as if I’m about to walk into a situation that matters.

It shouldn’t.

She shouldn’t.

And yet, I can still hear her voice.

Commanding. Unimpressed. Completely uninterested in who I am or what I’ve done.

That alone should’ve been enough to make me forget her.

Instead, it did the opposite.

I push the door open.

The bell rings overhead, the same sound it made when I was nineteen and running on nothing but bad decisions and cheap beer. The smell hits next. Coffee, grease, a sweetness under it all. I’m standing in two timelines at once.

Then, I see her.

Behind the counter, moving as if she belongs here in a way I never really did. Her hair’s pulled up, loose strands falling around her face, pen tucked behind her ear because she’s been working for hours and doesn’t care how obvious it is. She’s talking to someone, smiling in that quick, effortless way that catches me off guard more than it should.

There’s nothing polished about her. Nothing calculated.

She doesn’t try.