Notes of Attraction - B.E.

Part 5 | THE WRONG KIND OF IMPRESSION

[EVELYNS POV]

I saw her before she saw me.

That gave me maybe three seconds of advantage, three seconds where I could watch Billie Eilish walk through the doors and let the reality of her settle before I had to put on the act. Not that I ever really take it off anymore.

She looked exactly how I thought she would—oversized hoodie, baggy pants, messy bun tucked under a beanie, her face mostly hidden behind sunglasses she probably didn't need indoors. Everything about her screamed I don't care what you think of me, which, ironically, takes a lot of effort to pull off.

And still... she was beautiful.

That surprised me.

Not in the conventional way—she wasn't polished, not like most of the actresses or pop girls I've worked with—but she had this quiet magnetism. Big eyes that didn't miss anything. Full mouth, slightly parted like she was always about to say something biting. Skin like porcelain and soft shadows under her eyes, like she hadn't slept in a few days but didn't mind. And when she walked in, every conversation seemed to pause, even just slightly, like the air noticed her before anyone else did.

Of course she's beautiful, I thought bitterly. Of course she's the whole package—talent, edge, mystery. And now I have to work with her.

I turned away quickly before she caught me staring and tried to anchor myself in a conversation I barely cared about. It was stupid to be nervous. I'd met a hundred stars. Bigger names. Louder personalities. But something about Billie felt unpredictable.

Then she got closer. And it was harder to pretend I wasn't bristling.

Her clothes—if you could call them that—looked like they'd been pulled from a laundry pile and thrown on five minutes before the flight. I know that's her thing, the anti-fashion thing, the "I'm not trying" thing, but we were on a set. A working environment. And while I didn't expect her to show up in a gown, I also didn't expect her to look like she'd just rolled out of bed.

I hated that it got to me. I hated that she could walk in looking like chaos and still pull attention like a magnet.

Because I had spent years perfecting this. The image. The posture. The presence. And she'd just walked in and taken up space like it was hers by default.

"Billie," I said, letting every inch of professionalism wrap around my voice. "I hear we'll be working together."

She smiled. It wasn't fake, exactly, but it wasn't warm either. It was the smile of someone who knows how to play the game, even if she pretends she doesn't care about the rules.

"Yeah. Guess so."

We shook hands, and her fingers were cool against mine. There was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes—like she was already trying to figure me out. I didn't give her the satisfaction.

I kept my tone neutral, clipped. "Look. I'll be direct. I wasn't exactly consulted on bringing you in. But since this is happening, I hope we can keep things... efficient."

Her expression didn't falter, but I saw it—the subtle shift in her jaw. She wasn't used to being brushed off. Not gently, not publicly. Not by someone like me.

"Sure," she said. "I'm not here to mess with your process. I'm just here to write the music."

"Good," I replied. "Then we'll get along fine."

I turned and walked away before I could say anything I'd regret. Before I could let her get under my skin more than she already had.

Because the truth was, Billie Eilish had arrived—and I wasn't sure if I was more annoyed by her presence... or by the way part of me wanted to keep looking at her just a little longer.

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