Page 12 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“My best memory of her, though—” I pause as a twinge of sadness settles in my chest. I swallow, proceeding cautiously—the last thing Iwant to do is cry in front of my new boss on day one. He’ll think I’m a basket case. “Is one summer—I think I was in the seventh grade—you know that awkward age where you start to worry about what others think. Well, we didn’t have money for a proper summer vacation, we never did. But Mom was determined that year. I had several friends who were all out of town, traveling to faraway places with their families. I tried to tell Mom it didn’t bother me, but I think deep down she knew it did. She said if she couldn’t afford to take me to Paris, she would bring Paris to me.

“She made each room in our apartment a different theme—a different country. We had warm croissants and played French pop music in the kitchen. She’d taped a huge photo of the Eiffel Tower to the fridge. We ate grocery store sushi and listened to traditional Japanese music on the balcony. And that night we camped out on blankets in the living room, eating New York–style pizza and watchingBreakfast at Tiffany’son the TV. We painted each other’s toenails Tiffany Blue. It was the best day.”

When I finish, I realize I didn’t do a very good job at keeping my emotions at bay. Tears silently streak down my cheeks, and I sniff and wipe them away.

Charles pats my knee with his warm, wrinkled hand.

“I’m sorry,” I manage around a lump in my throat.

“Don’t be,” he says encouragingly. “Sometimes, it’s the simplest things that leave the most lasting impressions. Your mom didn’t need a passport to take you around the world—she gave you something far more valuable: the magic of making the best out of what you have. That’s a gift not everyone knows how to give.”

I sniff again. “I guess I never thought about it that way. I just liked spending the day with her, being silly. She worked so much. It was nice to just be together.”

“Thank you for telling me that story. Reminds me that sometimes it’s the simple moments that shape us.”

I huff and give him my best side-eye. “Yeah, but that’s the thing ... I have no idea who I am.”

Charles studies me for a beat. “Maybe not. But I think you’re someone who keeps going, even when it’s hard. Someone who feels things deeply and doesn’t pretend otherwise. That says something.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, throat tight.

It’s more grace than I’ve given myself in a while. And somehow, coming from someone who barely knows me, it hits even harder.

I’m saved from any further embarrassing emotional displays when the flight attendant appears with two trays. I fumble with my tray table as she delivers our lunches. There’s real cutlery and tiny crystal salt and pepper shakers. And the food looks delicious. Those poor suckers in coach ... How would I ever go back?

I place the white cloth napkin in my nap and watch nervously as Charles inspects his pasta primavera. We got very deep, very quickly. Which is mostly my fault, I realize, but I decide to roll with it.

“What about you?” I ask, carefully forking a cherry tomato. “Life story?”

Charles uses his butter knife to smear softened butter onto his multigrain roll. “You want the condensed version? I am eighty-two, you know?”

I make a show of glancing at my watch. “It’s a three-hour flight. I’ll take the long version.”

He’s surprisingly talkative once I get him going. He tells me about his late wife, Betsey, and how they met at a dance hall. She was there with a date, but he stole her away. They were married within eight weeks. I can’t even imagine such a thing nowadays. Red flags galore ... but I can tell that what they had was real. So much so, that when she passed away from ovarian cancer when they were still in their early thirties, that was it for him. He never dated or felt the desire to move on. It’s heartbreaking, honestly. To live your whole life alone like that. Although he also had plenty of adventure. He loves his work, and he’s traveled extensively. Despite his young heartbreak, he’s had a great life.It’s strange, listening to someone who’s acutely aware they’re on the final leg of their journey. But he doesn’t seem sad or depressed about it.

“Did she share your love for liverwurst?” I ask, hoping to keep things upbeat—in light of both of us essentially sharing our greatest losses.

“God no,” he laughs. “She couldn’t stand the stuff. Even the smell of it would turn her stomach. I had to sneak it when she wasn’t around.”

It sounds like Betsey and I had at least one thing in common.

When we land, there’s a uniformed driver waiting for us, holding one of those signs like you see in the movies, but instead of containing the name “Winthrop,” it says “Wincock.”

I flash Charles a curious look, raising my eyebrows.

“It’s good to be a little inconspicuous.” He shrugs.

“And you thought using the word Wincock was the way to do it?” I shake my head.

From the Bozeman airport, it’s a forty-minute drive to the house. Charles mentions that he has an SUV parked there, which I’ll be free to use during our stay.

We drive through a gated neighborhood, passing by houses and sprawling ranches every few minutes. The landscape is vast and serene, with open spaces that stretch as far as the eye can see.

Charles casually shares a bit of trivia, noting that the name “Montana” comes from the Spanish wordmontaña, meaning mountain—which seems fitting.

When we finally arrive, the house surprises me. It’s actually more understated than I expected. Sure, it’s probably a multimillion-dollar property, but it has a restrained charm. There’s a three-car garage, a lovely flagstone porch, and a huge stone chimney. The real star, though, is the property itself—acres of gently rolling hills with breathtaking views of the Beartooth Mountains in the distance.

Is this really how the other half lives?