Page 58 of How to Train Your Billionaire

But the thought of someone actuallygettingit?

That doesn’t sit right with me at all.

“I’m glad you talked me into coming out,” she says, taking a sip of her sugary cocktail.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

She lifts one bare shoulder. “Because I wouldn’t have otherwise, and while this isn’t my scene, it’s fun to mix it up once in a while.”

A guy with slicked-back hair and bad veneers approaches from behind her, placing a hand on her lower back. “Hello, future wife.”

Frankie laughs, light and unbothered. “Well, that’s ambitious.”

His pickup line annoys me—greatly—but I stay where I am, pretending not to care while every muscle in my jaw disagrees. As I watch them make small talk, something clicks into place.

Frankieiswife material.

Even if this idiot is only seeing her for her curves and that knockout smile, there’s more—so much more.

It’s in the way she listens when someone speaks, the way she holds her own without needing to raise her voice. The way she lights up when she’s proud of something. She’s funny. Smart. Kind without being naive. Sharp without being cruel.

Someone’s going to be lucky as hell to stand across from her one day and hear her say I do.

Just not this guy.

Not that I care about things like marriage.

My parents’ disaster of a situationship cured me of that particular delusion a long time ago.

Still . . .

It’s getting harder to pretend I don’t care who gets to stand beside her.

“Come dance with me and Kira,” Colette says, grabbing her elbow and interrupting her conversation with the guy vying for her attention.

“Sure.” She smiles. “Hold my purse?” she asks me sweetly, setting the miniature handbag in my lap.

I grumble something that must sound like consent and watch as she saunters away, moving her hips to the pulse of the beat. I’m transfixed, unable to look away, even for a second. Which is ... insane. This isFrankie.

The light streaming through the salon windows is more painful than helpful. My head throbs as I sip on the coffee in my hand, hoping it will work its magic.

Charles is sitting across from me, looking perfectly fine—because he didn’t go out clubbing with us last night. He’s a picture of health and normalcy, but I can tell by the look on his face that he’s enjoying my suffering.

“Good morning,” I mutter, my voice rough from last night’s abuse.

Charles raises an eyebrow. “You look ... well, like you had a good time.” He’s practically holding back a laugh.

“Don’t say it,” I warn.

He sips his coffee, eyes glinting with amusement. “I’m just saying, I’m glad someone had fun. Can’t say I’m envious of the hangover you’ve got going.”

Before I can throw something at him, the door opens and Frankie walks in, looking like she’s struggling just as much as I am. She stops when she sees us, putting a hand to her head. “Ugh, good morning to everyone except for me.”

I snort, relieved to see I’m not the only one feeling like death. I offer her a cup of coffee. “But maybe this will help.”

She raises an eyebrow at the mug. “This looks like something that could wake the dead.”

“It’s strong. Trust me, it’s the only way to survive this,” I tell her, raising my own mug in a mock toast.