Page 47 of How to Train Your Billionaire

Captain Laurent emerges and shakes Hayes’s hand, and they exchange pleasantries before launching into a long conversation on the benefits of a twin-turbine engine vs. an inboard diesel.

I focus on my wine.

The sun has dipped below the horizon, casting a soft golden glow over the marina as we settle in for dinner on the aft deck. The table is set with flickering candles and polished silverware, the kind of setting that makes me feel like I should sit up straighter and pretend I know which wine pairs best with fish.

Hayes sits across from me, looking completely at ease, like dining on a yacht in the South of France is as routine as grabbing takeout. Charles, of course, is perfectly in his element. Meanwhile, I’m just hoping I don’t accidentally knock over a crystal glass or burp or something.

The chef, a tall, wiry Frenchman named Luc, steps onto the deck with a serious expression, clasping his hands together like he’s about to announce a royal decree.

“Çe soir,” he begins, accent thick, “we start with seared scallops in saffron sauce, followed by wagyu steak sous vide with foie gras and truffles, and we finish with a dark chocolate tarte with raspberry coulis. Bon appétit.” Our plates are set before us, and he waltzes away.

One bite, and I let out a long moan.

“I don’t even know like half the words he just said, but one thing is for certain—I need to marry a chef.”

Charles smiles, watching me with a look of amusement.

“How are you settling into the boat?” Hayes asks, directing the question to me.

“Good, I guess. It’s just that they have all this staff here, what do they possibly need me for?”

He meets my eyes. “That staff takes care of the boat. You are there to take care of him.” He looks at his uncle.

Right.

Duh.

“Noted,” I say, nodding once and hoping my smile conveys a sense of confidence.

While we eat, the conversation flows easily—Charles steers discussions toward business, art, and a bunch of other things that make me wish I’d paid more attention in school.

We’ve talked a lot over the past few weeks, just the two of us, and I usually keep up pretty well. But tonight the topics—business, art, global whatever—start to blend into background noise.

Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I’m just distracted.

I poke at my food, half listening, until something shifts in the tone of Hayes’s voice. It’s quieter now, more thoughtful—like he’s letting something slip he didn’t mean to share.

“I just ... I don’t know what to do. I hate feeling helpless,” he says, and I can hear the raw edge in his tone. He pushes his wineglass aside, his fingers gripping the stem.

I pause, staring at him. I lean forward a bit, unsure where this conversation is headed.

“About what?” Charles asks, frowning.

“It’s my assistant, Greta. She’s a single mom.”

I remember meeting Greta when I went in for my interview. She was sweet and tried her best to make me feel at ease.

“She was just diagnosed with leukemia.” His jaw tightens, and he pauses.

Wait. What’s this? There’s a vulnerable side to the one-dimensional Hayes?

He’s still talking, though, his brows knitted together in concern. “I’ve already told her to take as much time off as she needs, but it’s hard. She’s not great at accepting help. I’ve promised her she’ll always have her job, and I’m covering her medical bills.” He pauses, cutting into his steak. His voice is steady, but his grip on the knife is a little tighter than necessary. “I just don’t know what else to do.”

I blink, feeling a rush of warmth. Hayes, the guy I’ve been annoyed with for weeks, the guy I’ve always pegged as self-absorbed, is plagued with concern, helplessness, and fear of not being able to do more. I’m caught off guard.

“That’s ... a lot,” I say, almost stumbling over my words. “It’s a kind offer.”

“I don’t want her to go through this alone,” he interrupts, and there’s a fierceness in his voice that surprises me. “She’s been there for me, and I don’t know what I’d do without her. I just wish I could do more.”