Page 55 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“Relax,” Hayes drawls, annoyed. “Nothing happened.”

I snort. “Right. Because men frequently bring drunk models back to their rooms just for a deep, intellectual discussion on the state of the world.”

Hayes sets his espresso cup down and leans back in his chair, his gaze lazily sweeping over me. “Maybe we debated the merits of modern art,” he says, lips twitching. “Maybe we discussed philosophy and the fleeting nature of human connection.”

I roll my eyes so hard I practically see my brain. “Sure. And maybe I moonlight as a NASA engineer in my free time.”

“Do you?” He cocks a brow. “Because that would explain your ability to launch into orbit over something that’s absolutely none of your business.”

My mouth falls open. “I amnot—” I snap my jaw shut, because okay, maybe Iwasbeing a little dramatic. But that’s beside the point.

Charles sighs again. “Frankie, please don’t take the bait. I just woke up. I don’t have the energy for your feud right now.”

Hayes smirks at me like he’s already won. I glare back at him, but my irritation is cracking under the weight of Charles’s stony look.

Then, as if on cue, Hayes reaches for the croissant basket at the same time I do, and our fingers brush. I snatch my hand back like I’ve been electrocuted.

Hayes lifts the basket and offers me the last croissant. “Truce?”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “I hate you.”

“And yet,” he muses, taking a bite, “you keep ending up at my breakfast table.”

I narrow my eyes at him, then grab my coffee and take a long, slow sip. “I’m just waiting for you to choke on that.”

He chuckles, and damn it, so do I.

“Well, if you excuse me, I have an errand to run in Monaco today,” Hayes says, rising to his feet.

I remember the case of fancy wine he told me he was picking up.

I ball up my napkin and toss it onto the table.

Charles frowns at me once Hayes is gone. “Are you sure you’re not mad that he’s dating this girl?”

A short, irritated laugh escapes me. “They’re not dating, believe me. They’re sleeping together. And no, I’m not mad. Why would I be mad about that?”

He shrugs. “That’s what I was trying to figure out.”

When Hayes returns several hours later, I’m stretched out on one of the lounge chairs on the aft deck, flipping through a book I’m barely reading. He strolls up like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.

He’s freshly showered, wearing a crisp white button-down with the sleeves pushed up, the top two buttons undone like some kind of Monaco playboy starter pack.

“Get up,” he says, nudging the lounge chair with his foot.

I peer at him. “Wow, charming. That line usually work?”

His lips twitch. “We’re going out.”

I blink. “We?”

“Me. You. Some of the deck crew. Try to keep up. We’re going to Monte Carlo for drinks and dancing.”

I lower my book fully, trying to gauge if he’s messing with me. “Since when do you invitemeto things?”

He exhales dramatically. “Since I decided you could use a break from ... whatever it is you do all day.” He gestures vaguely at my book. “ReadingWar and Peaceor whatever.”

I flip the book around and pretend to read the title. “A Beginner’s Guide to Not Murdering Your Annoying Yacht Mate.”