Claimed By My Billionaire Stepbrothers

The espresso machine hissed like an angry snake, and my hands shook as I twisted the portafilter into place. Three hours of sleep. That's all I'd managed between closing the diner at midnight and opening Lumineux Café at five a.m.

"Grande oat milk latte, extra hot!" I called out, my voice cracking.

The customer-a woman dripping in diamonds at seven in the morning-wrinkled her nose as she took the cup. No tip. Of course.

My feet screamed in my worn sneakers. Two more hours until my break.

"Excuse me."

The voice cut through the café noise like warm honey. Deep. Smooth. Dangerous.

I looked up.

My breath caught.

He sat in the corner booth, perfectly positioned in morning sunlight that made him look like something out of a magazine. Dark hair, artfully disheveled. A jawline that could cut glass. And eyes-God, those eyes-watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

How long had he been there?

"Can I help you?" I asked, proud my voice came out steady.

He smiled. Slow. Devastating. "I hope so."

He stood, and my brain short-circuited. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A suit that probably cost more than my rent.

"I've been watching you," he said, reaching the counter.

"That's creepy," I shot back before I could stop myself.

His laugh was genuine, surprised. "Fair. Let me rephrase. I've been admiring how you handle the morning rush."

"Is that what we're calling it? Because I call it survival."

"Then let me buy you a coffee. When you're off shift. Or dinner. Or both."

My heart hammered. Men like this didn't ask girls like me out.

"I don't even know your name," I said.

"Julian." He extended his hand. "And you're Maya. Your name tag."

His hand was warm, his grip firm. The touch sent electricity up my arm, and from the slight widening of his eyes, he felt it too.

"So, Maya." He leaned against the counter. "Dinner?"

"I have another job after this."

"Tomorrow then?"

"I work doubles most days."

Something flickered in his expression. Concern? Pity? My defenses slammed up.

"Look, I appreciate the offer, but-"

"What time do you get off? Tonight. I'll wait."

"It's one a.m."

"I'm a night owl."

I stared at him. He was serious.

"Why?" The word slipped out.

Julian's expression softened. "Because the moment you looked up and told me I was creepy, I knew I had to know you better."

Despite myself, I smiled. "You're insane."

"Probably." He pulled out his phone. "Your number? I promise I'm not a serial killer. You can Google me. Julian Beaumont."

Beaumont. My fingers froze. That name was familiar. Why was it familiar?

"Grande iced Americano!" someone shouted from the line.

"That's me," Julian said, still holding my gaze. "So? Take a chance, Maya. What's the worst that could happen?"

Everything, my brain screamed. But my traitorous mouth gave him my number.

His fingers brushed mine as he took his coffee, and my stomach flipped.

"Until tonight then." He started to