Page 69 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“You’re awfully quiet over there,” he muses, shooting me a quick glance. “Regretting your decision to get in a car with me?”

I smirk. “I’m good. Just wondering if you have a plan or if we’rewingingit today.”

“Of course I have a plan,” he says, slipping on his sunglasses. “We’re going on a picnic.”

“A picnic?”

For a man with all the money, all the connections, and everything at his disposal ... he’s going to throw a blanket down in the grass and call it good? I’m not sure whether to laugh or be disappointed.

He scoffs, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know, I take my picnicking very seriously. Blanket? Check. Food? Check. Extremely charming company?” He gestures to himself. “Check.”

I shake my head, laughing. “Wow. The humility is astounding.”

“I try.” He grins, tapping a few fingers on the steering wheel. “And what about you? What’s your picnic contribution?”

I pretend to think. “Well, I brought my sparkling personality, which, let’s be honest, is carrying this entire outing.”

Hayes laughs, deep and warm, and it settles something in my chest. “You’re going to love the lavender fields. You’ll see.”

While I gaze out the window, taking in the breathtaking scenery, Hayes hums along to the soft music playing from the car’s speakers, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the back of my seat.

A little while later, Hayes makes good on his promise. Provence is a dream—rolling hills, charming villages, and the golden glow of the late afternoon sun spilling over endless fields of lavender that sway in the breeze.

He parks along a gravel country road, and we climb out. I gaze out at the field stretching before us—vibrant purple against green hills. It looks like something out of a watercolor painting. The fragrant scent of lavender surrounds us, warm and intoxicating in the June breeze.

“Wow,” I whisper, turning to take it all in. “This is unreal.”

I hadn’t realized how much I needed this. To be off the yacht—to feel the ground beneath my feet.

He grabs a picnic basket from the back seat and grins. “Not bad, huh?”

We find a perfect spot among the lavender and lay out a blanket under the open sky. Bees hum lazily nearby, uninterested in us, and the sun casts everything in a soft, honey-colored glow. Hayes unpacks our picnic—fresh baguettes, creamy cheeses, ripe summer fruit, and a chilled bottle of Provençal rosé.

“Very civilized,” I murmur as he pours the blush-pink wine into two glasses.

He hands one to me, his fingers brushing mine for just a second too long. “Only the best,” he says, eyes catching mine as he takes a sip.

“Santé.”

I accept the wine and clink my glass to his. “Santé.”

The wine is delicious. Crisp and buttery with soft floral notes. I help myself to all the goodies, not even minding that these snacks are more gourmet and less grocery store grab-and-go.

“I can’t get over how beautiful this is,” I say, gesturing to the purple flowers.

“Agree. But the color’s more of a wisteria than a lavender.”

I eye him. “Where’d you get that?”

“Crayola.” He shrugs.

I laugh until I realize he’s being serious. He tells me a story about coloring with his sister, Maddie, and how one of his favorite parts is listening to her theories on color names being a conspiracy.

It’s surprisingly easy, being here with Hayes—natural, even. The conversation flows, and we snack and laugh together.

The soft rustle of the breeze through the flowers. Theabsolutely gorgeousman lounging beside me.

I’m not sure how it’s happened, but this feels almost ... normal.