Page 5 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“You’re an ass.” Frankie grabs her sparkly portfolio and rises to her feet.

I press my lips together. Most people don’t speak to me this way, so her response is a little unexpected.

My great-uncle Charles chooses that moment to peek his head inside my office. “Hazey?” His gaze moves from me to Francesca. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s okay, Uncle Charles,” I say, rising to my feet. The last thing I want him to do is worry. His health has been on a steady decline lately. The man is eighty-two. Why he hasn’t retired by now is beyond me. “Frankie here was just leaving.”

“You bet your butt I’m leaving,” Frankie snarks. “Your nephew is a giantman-babywho can’t look past something I did when I washangry. I could do this job in my sleep, but whatever, it’s your loss, dude.”

“Huh?” Uncle Charles says, scratching his temple, failing to catch on.

“Exactly,” I mutter.

Frankie moves past the desk and toward Uncle Charles. He takes a step closer, blocking her path.

“What position were you interviewing for?” He looks genuinely curious, his gray bushy eyebrows raised.

The sooner I can get her out of my office, the better. I have no idea why my uncle is meddling.Read the room,I silently plead.

She blinks at him. “I’m an accountant, and I love it. But I know I wouldn’t be happy working for someone likethat.” She jerks her thumb toward me with disdain.

I release a slow breath and count backward from ten.You’re Hayes Winters, you finished undergrad in three years, you’ve negotiated eight-figure deals, you climbed Machu Picchu. You can survive one annoyingly attractive junior accountant.

“I see,” he says, sliding his glasses into the front pocket of his cardigan. “I like your spunk, Frankie. I’ve never seen someone stand up to Hayes the way you did. We should talk.”

What the . . .

Uncle Charles hands her his business card, which she annoyingly waves at me with a fake smile before tucking it into her hideous purple portfolio.

Holy plot twist, Batman.

I’m hunched over my desk later when Malachi strolls into my office without so much as a knock, his energy a stark contrast to my somber mood. He’s all smiles and mischief, typical Malachi.

“I’ve got good news. We’re going to Palm Springs for a guys’ golf weekend. Jet’s all set. We depart Friday after lunch,” he announces with a grin that I’ve come to know means trouble.

I lean back, rubbing my temples as I eye him warily. “The last time I agreed to one of your ‘harmless’ weekends, I ended up in a holding cell with a souvenir armadillo and a very awkward phone call to my lawyer.”

He chuckles, the sound echoing in my too-serious office. “Ah, but what’s life without a little adventure? Besides, you need this. You’ve been all work and no play. It’s not healthy.”

Malachi is one of my closest friends, and he’s right; we haven’t hung out in ages. Still, I can’t help but smirk at his concern, knowing full well that Malachi’s idea of fun usually involves some level of debauchery that I’m not sure I have the stamina or the bail money for at the moment.

“Your version ofstress relieftends to addmorestress in the aftermath,” I remind him. “And besides, I’ve promised my sister she could stay with me this weekend.”

He waves off my concerns with a flick of his wrist. “I’m sure you could reschedule. Besides, it’sgolf.” He enunciates the word. “How wild can it get?”

I raise an eyebrow, knowing full well that with him, even a game of golf could turn into an international incident.

He leans one hip against my desk, his expression softening. “Look, I know you’ve been under a ton of pressure lately. Between running point on the sale of the media division, and ...”

I hold up one hand, stopping him. “Can we justnot?”

He releases a slow breath. “Fine. Have fun babysitting all weekend.”

Chapter Three

When Life Gives You Lemons, Make a Playlist

Frankie