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 walk away, then turned back. "And Maya? Wear something comfortable. We're not going anywhere fancy."

He left, and I stood frozen.

"Girl, you better give me details."

I jumped. Shanice had materialized beside me, eyes wide.

"Who was that?"

"Some guy named Julian Beaumont."

Shanice's jaw dropped. "Beaumont? As in Beaumont Hotels? As in billionaire Beaumont?"

The world tilted.

No. No, no, no.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Looking forward to tonight. And Maya? I meant what I said. You're extraordinary. -J

My hands shook. I'd just given my number to a billionaire.

My phone buzzed again.

BTW, your coffee art is incredible. The swan you made for that little girl? Made her whole day. Made mine too, watching you. -J

He'd been watching me that long?

My chest tightened. This was wrong. Men like Julian Beaumont didn't date baristas. They used them, played with them, broke them.

But God, the way he'd looked at me.

"I'll be fine," I said to Shanice, not sure if I was lying.

The door chimed.

I looked up automatically, customer service smile ready.

And froze.

A woman stood in the doorway. Late forties, elegant, with the kind of beauty that came from expensive maintenance. She wore a cream dress that probably cost more than my car.

Our eyes met.

Her expression shifted from neutral to shocked recognition.

"Maya?" she whispered.

The world stopped.

I knew that voice. Knew that face, though it had aged, hardened.

"Mom?"