Page 113 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“Still not specific enough.”

She turns in my arms, and the look she gives me could melt steel.

I move closer, wrapping my arms around her waist and tugging her close. She fits against me like she was made for it.

“What are you making?”

“Breakfast. Obviously.” She touches her lips to mine—just a quick kiss. “Hope you don’t mind I raided your kitchen. Though honestly, your food situation is tragic. Who keeps seventeen types of mustard but no decent coffee creamer?”

“I don’t drink coffee with creamer.”

“Of course you don’t. You take it black like some kind of sociopath.”

“I am not a sociopath.”

“Jury’s still out.”

I press a kiss to her neck, tasting salt and the faint sweetness of her perfume. “What’s the verdict on breakfast?”

“Well, I found bacon, eggs, and some fancy bread that was probably baked by someone with the wordartisanin their title.”

“Perfect.”

She turns in my arms, studying my face. “You’re different in the morning.”

“Different how?”

“Softer. Less ...” She waves the spatula vaguely. “Intimidating corporate overlord. More like a regular human who might actually eat carbs.”

“I eat carbs.”

“When?”

I pause. When do I eat carbs? My trainer has me on this ridiculous protein-heavy diet that makes everything taste like cardboard.

“Exactly.” Frankie grins. “When’s the last time you had pancakes? Or a doughnut? Or literally any food that brings joy instead of optimized nutrition?”

“I don’t really—”

“That’s what I thought.” She turns back to the stove. “We’re fixing that. Starting now.”

The bacon sizzles. She’s cracked eggs into a bowl and is whisking them with the kind of violent enthusiasm that makes me slightly concerned for their molecular structure.

“When did you learn to cook?”

“I decided it was time.” She gives me a shy smile.

“Can I help?”

“Can you make coffee without it tasting like motor oil?”

“I think so.”

“Then yes. Coffee duty is yours.”

I move to my espresso machine—a Italian monstrosity that cost more than most people’s cars—and start the familiar ritual.

“Geez,” Frankie mutters, watching me. “Even your coffee routine is intimidating. Do you have a special certification for that thing?”