Page 52 of How to Train Your Billionaire

He runs a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back, the muscles in his arm flexing with the motion. He’s unaware, unrushed, and I’m mesmerized. My pulse jumps, and for a second, I forget how to do anything but stare.

Then his head tilts slightly, like he senses something, and before I can react, his eyes flick open, locking onto mine.

Shit.

I make a strangled sound—something between a gasp and a cough—and whip around so fast I nearly trip over my own feet.

“Frankie?” His voice is laced with amusement, and I swear I can hear the smirk forming on his lips.

“Nope. Didn’t see anything!” I call over my shoulder, already halfway down the deck, my face burning. “Nothing at all.”

His chuckle follows me, deep and full of trouble. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

I don’t stop. I don’t dare look back.

I’m in so much trouble.

I manage to avoid Hayes the rest of the day, which isn’t hard to achieve because he heads into town for his errand. Charles sits in the shade while I read in a lounge chair.

“You want anything?” I ask him, dog-earing the corner of my paperback. “I’m going to grab a snack.”

He shakes his head.

I’m on my way back from the galley when I hear it—the unmistakable sound of frustration. An irritated grumble followed by the sharp clang of a washing machine door slamming shut.

Curious, I poke my head into the yacht’s tiny laundry room and freeze.

Hayes Winters, billionaire, master of the universe, and wearer of crisp, undoubtedly dry-cleaned shirts, is standing in front of the washing machine in a faded T-shirt with his arms crossed, scowling at it like it personally insulted him.

I lean against the doorframe, arms folded. “You okay there, big guy? You look like you’re about to challenge that Whirlpool to a duel.”

He startles, then smooths his features into something vaguely aloof. “I’m fine. Just ... figuring this out.”

My eyes drift to the laundry detergent sitting, still capped, on top of the machine, then to the buttons on the control panel, all of which seem to have been pressed in a desperate attempt to make something happen. The machine sits silent, unbothered.

“You’ve never done your own laundry before, have you?” I ask, biting back a smile.

He lifts his chin. “Of course I have.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“... Maybe once.” He frowns in concentration.

The laugh I’ve been holding in escapes before I can stop it. “Oh, this is rich. What happened? Butler on vacation?”

His glare is half hearted at best. “If you’re just here to gloat, you can leave.”

“Oh no,” I say, stepping in and nudging him aside. “This is too good. Ihaveto help now.”

He gives me a helpless look. “The truth is, I never learned. I went to two different boarding schools. Laundry would disappear and come back two days later clean, folded, and perfectly pressed, so yeah, laundry machines scare me.”

“Well, nothing to be afraid of.” I peer into the open machine. “At least you sorted your colors.”

He hesitates. “Should I have?”

I whip my head around. “Youdidn’t?”

His smirk is back. “Relax, I’m not a total lost cause.”