My Three Billionaire Rockstars (Bad Boys of Redemption Records #1)

Willow

ONE

If one more person asks me to reheat their coffee, I might actually commit a felony.

“Miss?”

I close my eyes for half a second. Then, I turn back to table six with my best customer service smile, the one that looks polite but is actually hanging on by a thread.

“Yes?”

The man points accusingly at his mug while looking accusingly at me. “This coffee is lukewarm.”

Sir. You have been sitting here for forty minutes talking about lawn fertilizer. Of course, it’s lukewarm.

I reach for the pot of coffee anyway. “Tragic.”

He doesn’t catch the sarcasm. His type never does.

I pour him a fresh cup and escape before he can start another complaint about temperature.

The Redemption Diner is packed today. Locals filling the red vinyl booths, forks clinking, the smell of bacon grease and maple syrup hanging in the air.

Still, even after almost a year living here, I feel a little like I’m watching everyone else in their hometown… from the outside of it.

It’s loud.

Busy.

And I’ve been on my feet since six this morning.

My neck aches, so I reach back and rub the spot at the base of my skull, trying to work out the knot that’s been building all day.

Right now, my adorable little dog Daisy is probably curled up on the couch waiting for me to get home, blissfully unaware that humans invented the service industry as a form of torture.

Lucky dog.

“Willow!” Lara calls from the kitchen window. “Order up!”

“Coming!”

I grab the plates and slide through the narrow aisle between booths like I’ve been doing this my whole life. Which, it’s starting to feel like I have.

“Pancakes for Bill,” I say, setting the plate down.

Bill squints at them like he’s expecting betrayal. “These gluten free?”

“They’re pancakes, Bill.”

“I’m trying this new diet, and you never know what’s in food these days.”

“Right,” I say slowly.

The guys at the table laugh while Bill grumbles and digs in anyway. I’m halfway back to the counter when the bell above the diner door rings, and I swear the entire place goes silent.

I glance up.

Three men walk in.

Not locals, that’s obvious immediately. Outsiders spot outsiders easily, and with my accent I stand out just as much as they do.

Locals don’t move the way the three guys are, as if the room automatically belongs to them. They’re tall, dressed like they’ve come from some city, and way too polished for Redemption Falls on a Tuesday afternoon.

One of them is blond and put together like he should be on a business magazine cover.

Another has dark, messy hair and a leather jacket that screams bad ass rockstar.

The third one has dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and the kind of expression that says the world usually does what he wants.

Great.

I already know how this is going to go. Especially once the whispering starts.

“That’s them.”

“Told you they were real.”

“Tommy said they bought Hawthorne House.”

Great.

The mysterious new owners of the old estate have basically become Redemption Falls’ favorite hobby for the past two weeks.

Grace Holloway thinks they’re musicians. Bill insists they’re rich corporate idiots from Manhattan. Half the town seems convinced somebody kinda famous moved in behind those gates.

Personally, I stopped listening after day three. Celebrity gossip has always felt like a problem for people with enough free time to care about celebrities. And these aren’t even the celebrities I grew up with, so it means nothing to me.

I’ve got tables to clear and coffee to pour.

Whoever these men are, they’re still probably about to complain about the menu and tip five dollars like they’re doing charity work.

The hostess gestures toward my section.

Of course, they’re sitting in it. Fantastic.

Because clearly the universe looked down at me today and thought, You know what Willow needs after ten hours of difficult customers? Three extremely attractive men with expensive haircuts and an attitude problem.

The kind of men who go for women who look effortless in silk dresses, not ones who smell of coffee and pancakes and have to tug their shirt straight every five minutes.

I grab the coffee pot and head over, pasting on the diner smile again.

They slide into the booth with the kind of confidence that makes the room feel smaller.

Regular people glance at the menu, scoot into the seat, maybe apologize if they bump the table. These three spread out like they’ve just acquired the place in a hostile takeover.

Blond Business Guy sits closest to the aisle, posture straight, expensive watch glinting under the diner lights. The kind of man who probably uses words like “synergy” unironically.

Across from him, Leather Jacket leans back against the booth, one arm stretched along the seat behind him like he’s already comfortable here. His dark hair is messy in a way that’s definitely intentional, and there’s a permanent hint of a smirk on his mouth.

Then there’s Mr. Blue Eyes.

He sits opposite the others, long legs under the table, shoulders relaxed but somehow still… controlled. Like everything about him is intentional. His gaze flicks around the diner once, taking in the checkered floor, the old jukebox, Bill complaining about syrup three tables over.

Then his eyes land on me.

And stay there.

There’s a split second where I fight the urge to glance down at myself. Apron, curves, the way my shirt always fits a little too close in the wrong places, but I shove it down fast.

He doesn’t get that.

“Coffee?” I ask.

Blond Business Guy smiles easily. The kind of polished smile that probably convinces people to sign contracts they don’t fully understand. “Please.”

I grab the first mug and pour.

Leather Jacket is watching me with amusement already, which is annoying because he hasn’t even spoken yet. He looks like he’s waiting for something entertaining to happen.

Which is rude.

Then, Mr. Blue Eyes speaks. “Black.”

I nod. “All our coffee is black.”

He lifts his mug slightly, looking at it like he’s considering his life choices.

“No,” he says. “I mean painfully black.”

I pause mid-pour and stare at him. “You want me to make it extra strong?”

Leather Jacket bursts out laughing. “Ooh, watch out, British women don’t take shit. Or so I heard.”

Blond Business Guy hides a grin behind his hand.

Mr. Painfully Black Coffee doesn’t smile.

He just watches me. Like I’ve done something mildly fascinating.

Which is worse than if he’d gotten irritated. That look says he’s trying to figure me out, and I don’t appreciate being treated like a crossword puzzle.

I finish pouring his coffee and nudge the mug toward him.

“There you go,” I say. “Emotionally traumatized coffee.”

Leather Jacket laughs again.

Blond Business Guy finally gives up pretending to be professional and grins openly now.

Mr. Blue Eyes wraps his fingers around the mug and takes a slow sip.

He nods once. “Acceptable.”

I narrow my eyes. “High praise.” I pull out my notepad. “Anything else?”

Blond Business Guy glances at the menu. Leather Jacket doesn’t even look at it.

“I’ll take whatever you recommend,” he says, nodding toward me.

I blink at him. “That’s a dangerous game.”

“I like danger.”

Mr. Blue Eyes doesn’t react to that. He’s still studying the menu intensely.

Eventually, they start ordering. Or at least, they try to.

Because Mr. Painfully Black Coffee apparently has a lot of opinions about diner food.

“How fresh are the eggs?” he asks.

I blink. “Egg fresh.”

Leather Jacket snorts. Mr. Blue Eyes ignores him.

“The bacon crispy?”

“If the cook feels ready for that level of commitment.”

Leather Jacket nearly chokes laughing this time.

Blond Business Guy looks entertained enough that he’s clearly enjoying this whole situation.

Mr. Blue Eyes, however, is still watching me like he’s trying to determine whether I’m joking.

“Hash browns?” he asks.

“They exist.”

“Are they good?”

“They’re hash browns.” I raise an eyebrow.

Leather Jacket leans forward, clearly delighted now. “I love this place.”

“I try not to encourage that,” I say.

Blond Business Guy finally finishes ordering.

Mr. Blue Eyes closes the menu. “I’ll take the same.”

I scribble everything down, then I rub the back of my neck again, working out the tension.

This is exhausting.

Not because they’re rude, but because they’re the specific kind of confident that makes the world rearrange itself for them, and I already know one thing about myself.

I don’t rearrange.

I tear the page off my notepad and tuck it into the metal spinner by the kitchen window, then lift my voice just enough to carry over the clatter of plates and the murmur of the lunch rush.

“Lara, I’ve got three orders up. One existential crisis and two bad decisions.”

“Keep talking like that and you can cook it yourself,” she snaps back, though there’s enough amusement in her tone that I know I’m safe, for now.

I lean against the counter, rolling one shoulder and then the other, trying to ease some of the ache out of my neck before I grab the next order. It’s a mistake to look back at them, but I do it anyway, and the second I do, I know I shouldn’t have.

They’re still watching me.

Well, two of them are openly watching me.

Leather Jacket looks thoroughly entertained, like I’ve become the best thing to happen to him all day, and Blond Business Guy has the kind of measured expression that makes it feel like he’s assessing me, weighing everything up, maybe deciding whether I’m an inconvenience or an asset.

And Mr. Painfully Black Coffee…

He isn’t smiling. He doesn’t look irritated, either. He just looks focused in a way that’s somehow worse, like he’s paying close attention to every expression I make and every word that comes out of my mouth, filing it all away somewhere private for later.

It’s unnerving, and I’m not interested in being studied by a man who looks like he’s never once been told no in his life. So, I look away first.

I’ve dealt with far worse than three rich, handsome men with culinary opinions.

“Willow,” Lara says as she slides the plates toward me, “try not to start a war in the dining room.”

“No promises.”