Page 89 of How to Train Your Billionaire

Even if it might destroy me.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Fireworks and Pimples

Hayes

The Hamptons estate looks like Martha Stewart threw up red, white, and blue all over my childhood summer home.

Mom’s outdone herself this year. White tents dot the manicured lawn like expensive mushrooms. String lights drape between oak trees. The pool sparkles with floating candles shaped like stars.

It’s perfect. Tasteful. Everything Mom prides herself on.

I hate every inch of it.

“Hayes, darling.” Mom glides over in a white dress that probably cost more than a car. “You look handsome. Where’s your date?”

“Don’t have one.”

Her smile tightens. “Well, that’s disappointing.”

“I’ll mingle,” I say, already walking away.

Dad’s holding court by the bar, telling some story about his drumming days to a group of politicians who are pretending to be interested. Senator Morrison laughs too loud at whatever punch line Dad just delivered.

I grab a whiskey and find a corner where I can watch without participating. It’s my preferred party position—close enough to seemsocial, far enough away to avoid small talk about the economy or my nonexistent love life.

“You look like you’d rather be getting a root canal,” Malachi says, appearing beside me with a beer.

“That’s because I would.”

“Come on. It’s not that bad. Your mom throws a good party.”

I take a sip of whiskey and appreciate the way it burns on the way down. “She invited half of Manhattan. Including the Ashworth girl.”

“Ah.” Malachi grins. “The one with the trust fund and the personality of wet cardboard?”

“That’s the one.”

“She’s over there, by the way. Talking to your mom about her charity work.”

I glance over. Victoria’s wearing a pink dress and pearls, gesturing animatedly while Mom nods with approval.

“Lucky me.”

“You know what your problem is?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“You’re comparing every woman to—”

“Don’t.” I cut him off with a look.

Malachi holds up his hands. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s time to—”

“There she is!” Charles’s voice booms across the patio.

I turn toward the French doors, expecting to see some family friend or political donor.