Page 49 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“I sent her a text last night. She’ll probably see it this morning. I’ll let you know.”

When I look over again at Francesca, who’s been awfully quiet for the remainder of my workout, I see she’s got her head in her hands and her skin has a pale-greenish tinge to it.

“Are you okay? You look gross.”

“Thanks,” she deadpans, shooting me a look.

I hold up both hands. “I’m honest, I’m not blind. Do you normally get seasick?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure, I’ve never really been on a boat like this before.”

I abandon my cooldown stretches and rise to my feet. “Wait here. I have Dramamine in my toiletry kit.”

“What’s that?”

“A medication to treat motion sickness.”

A few minutes later, I return with the tablets and a cold bottle of water. “Take these, and let’s move you to the bow.”

She cracks open the water and takes the pills. “The what?”

I roll my eyes. “The front of the boat. It’s the best place to be if you start feeling queasy. Come on.”

I help her to her feet, and she leans against me as we walk.

We spoke a little at dinner, and I noticed things about her that I hadn’t before. Like how funny she was, how bright and witty.

Though to be honest, when she gave me the latest Wi-Fi network, I questioned if she was losing it with her little internet puns—there was nothing funny about Jesus—until I logged on last night and my computer popped up with the notificationYou are now connected to Jesus.

Well played, Frankie. Well played.

When we reach the bow, she sinks down onto the cushioned bench, and I decide to join her, since she looks miserable. Like comically, pitifully miserable. She has her legs curled up, arms wrapped around herself, looking less like a woman and more like a discarded rag doll that’s been through a washing machine one too many times. Her normally sharp mouth has beenreduced to a thin, queasy line, and her eyes—usually bright with some kind of argument—are glassy and unfocused.

I lean against the table and cross my arms. “Did you have any breakfast?”

She nods. “Two croissants.”

“Two?” I question.

Her head rolls toward me with all the effort of a dying Victorian heroine. “Are you seriously here to mock me while I suffer?”

I consider that. “A little.”

She groans, dropping her forehead onto her knees. “You’re the worst.”

I smirk. “I’ve been called worse. All I was going to say was that carbohydrates are good for this sort of thing.” Then, because I don’t actually enjoy watching her turn green, I slide into the seat across from her. “You need a distraction. Tell me something weird about yourself.”

She doesn’t move, except for a weak hand gesture. “Too sick. No thoughts. Only death.”

I chuckle. “Fine, I’ll go first. I hate strawberries. They freak me out.”

That gets a reaction. She peeks up at me, frowning. “What do you meanfreak you out?”

“They haveseeds on the outside. That’s unnatural.”

She lets out a strangled noise that Ithinkis supposed to be a laugh but sounds dangerously close to a dry heave. Her hand flutters toward her stomach. “Oh God. You’re making it worse.”

I try—really try—to keep a straight face, but she just looks so pathetic. All wrapped up in herself, groaning, wincing, fighting her own digestive system like it’s a personal enemy. It’s almost ... cute.