Page 34 of How to Train Your Billionaire

Charles lets out a low laugh. “Got it. Well, you deserve to have a little fun.”

“Thanks. He seems really cool.”

Cool. Right. I clench my fists under the table, irritation prickling at the edges of my mind. I have no reason to care who Francesca goes out with. None at all. It’s not like I pay attention to the way she smiles or how her laugh has this ridiculous way of making a room warmer. It definitely isn’t that I have, on more than one occasion, caught myself looking at her when I thought no one would notice.

And yet, here I am, annoyed as hell over the fact that she is happy. That makes no damn sense.

“So, where’s he taking you?”

“Hmm. Oh, some beach bar. Low Tide or something, I think.”

The Low Tide Lounge. I know it well. It isn’t what I’d call a first-date kind of place, but whatever.

She takes her coffee and turns toward the door. “I’m going to sit on the lanai.”

Maybe things between us are weird ever since our happy hour yesterday. I kind of stared at her in awe. She’s dealt with so much and has basically zero family. Yet, she’s still cheerful. A glass-half-full kind of person, even though she has no reason to be.

Malachi rounds the corner and enters the kitchen. “Last night in paradise. Should we go out?”

I nod absently. I forgot he’s leaving in the morning. It seems Francesca has snatched all my focus. It’s irritating.

Later that afternoon, Francesca wanders from her bedroom, wearing an oversize bathrobe—her facial expression one of outright horror. “I have an enormous pimple.”

I glance up from my laptop. “Tragic. How will we go on?”

It takes me a second to even find it—a tiny pink bump on her chin—but judging by her expression, we need to call in a crisis team.

“It’s gross, right?”

I force a frown. “It’s brutal. I can barely look at you. You should probably cancel your date.”

She lets out a deep, cathartic exhale. “No, you know what? I’m not canceling. First, I’ve solved much bigger problems than this. Second, I’m nothing if not crafty. When my mom told me we didn’t have the money for a Barbie Dreamhouse, I solved that problem with cardboard, tape, and finger paint. I’ve got this.” She hums to herself, tapping her chin. “An ice cube and extra concealer, that’s all I need.”

I blink. Her ingenuity is admirable.

She marches off with the resolve of someone about to perform surgery—not hide a zit.

I try to focus on the spreadsheet on my laptop, but I’m too distracted.

Why did I hurt her feelings and tell her she looked gross? Maybe because I’m annoyed about her date with some surf hippie. I know nothing about him, but I already know he’s not good enough for her.

She’s supposed to be here, helping my uncle, not out flirting with randos.

So later, when I catch up with Malachi, I say to him, “It’s your last night here, let’s go out.”

My delivery could have used some finesse. It’s less of an invitation and more of an order, but Malachi doesn’t seem to notice.

“Sure,” he says. “Where to?”

“The Low Tide Lounge.”

When we walk inside thirty minutes later, I do a double take when I spot Francesca.

She’s wearing a red mini dress that skims along her curves in a way that makes my mouth water. She looks like a piece of candy that I desperately want to bite into.

Where the hell did that thought come from?

This is Francesca. Who eats processed garbage and drives me absolutely bonkers.