Page 2 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“No, everything is not okay. Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

If I were in a better frame of mind, I’d notice that the guy is very cute and very tall and has really nice eyelashes.

“Do you need any help?” he offers, watching me with a curious expression.

Turning sharply, I glare at him. “Help? No, I don’t need help—I need this stupid machine to work! This is the fourth time it’s eaten my money!”

He holds up his hands, clearly out of his element. “I’m sure it’s just a glitch. Maybe you can try to get a refund or something.”

“I don’t need a refund,” I snap angrily. “I need a snack! And I don’t need some guy in a suit telling me how to fix my problems.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches as he appraises me. “I’m just trying to be helpful. I didn’t mean to—”

I cut him off. “Just forget it. I don’t want your help. I just want one thing to go right for me today. Is that really too much to ask?”

Suit guy must realize my question is rhetorical, because he wisely stays quiet. The way he looks at me gives me a weird, wavy feeling in my stomach—which I promptly ignore.

The last thing I expected on my bingo card today was an annoying finance bro on his way to his corner office to witness my public meltdown on a city sidewalk.

Whatever. I can eat my feelings later.

Abandoning the vending machine, I turn to retrieve my box from the bench where I left it, only to realize it’s no longer there.

“Are you kidding me?!” I shout at the universe. “Seriously?” Gesturing like a lunatic at the bench and then toward the sky, I notice that suit guy is now scurrying away quickly, shaking his head in disbelief.

That box didn’t contain anything of real value—just my potted cactus, a few framed photos, various notebooks, and a cardigan from Anthropologie that I loved.

I can’t say I’m even surprised. I’ve always been the poster child for cosmic misfortune.

Case in point—I was bitten by a sloth on the corporate retreat to Costa Rica last year. I once took the wrong suitcase from the airport—it was full of men’s clothing. And I accidentally sent the $950 I owed for my portion of the rent to the wrong Venmo—that was more than an annoying blunder. It’s not like I have an extra grand lying around. Thankfully my roommate was good to cover me while I spent the next few months scrounging.

Basically, if thingscango wrong, they will. It’s just how my life goes.

“Stop pouting and eat your wedge.” Tessa takes a sip from her glass of chardonnay.

I dutifully shovel another bite of salad into my mouth. “Happy?” I say around a mouthful of blue cheese.

“Frankie.” She gives me a stern look. “You are going to be fine.”

Maybe. Eventually. But it’s only been two days. While I’m not typically one to wallow, aren’t I allowed even a brief pity party? A short layover on the quarter-life-crisis express ...

I stab a grape tomato with my fork. “I need a job. And a vacation. And to lose ten pounds.” I need my roots done, too, if I’m being honest.

“You need a boyfriend,” she says, smiling.

“Not,” I grumble.

We’ve been through this. Tessa was constantly trying to set me up with her coworker’s son, or her eyelash girl’s brother. Basically, if he had a functioning penis, Tessa wanted me to ride it.

I giggle to myself. Okay, that’s not exactly true—but she does seem to be rather obsessed with the state of my love life. Who am I kidding? I don’t have a “love life,” and I’m perfectly okay with that. I haven’t dated at all in the past two years. After several bad breakups, I put myself on a sabbatical. Nowadays I’m happy to have great friends, a cute apartment, and a career that I love. Except, my brain reminds me, I no longer have one of those.

“I’m serious, babe. You’re going to find a great job, but I really think it could lift your spirits to have a little fun in the meantime and end this self-imposed relationship detox.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Tessa has dubbed me “boy sober.” As someone who’s experimented with dry January and sober October, I understood the assignment. A brief period in which I would abstain from dating. I would emerge at a later time more in control and able to make better choices—at least in theory.

I smile, remembering the guy who witnessed my public meltdown. “There was the cute guy in a suit that I possibly scarred for life yesterday.”