Page 25 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“Watching how Hayes was raised, it’s no doubt he has issues,” Malachi adds.

Charles kind of said something similar when I complained about his nephew. I’ll admit, I’m curious, but Hayes is a twenty-nine-year-old man. It’s like—grow up, dude. Get over it.

“So you two grew up together?”

He nods. “We met in the fourth grade. Best friends ever since.”

Hayes and Olivia make their way over to us. The way they’re sitting—a wide expanse between them and her glued to her phone—gives me another clue that they’re not quite the happy couple I first assumed they were.

A server delivers our food, and I’m so hungry that I dive right in.

Olivia delicately picks at her salad, pushing the croutons to the side like they’ve personally offended her. Meanwhile, I take a massive bite of mahi mahi and grin at her.

Hayes gives me a hard look, uncertainty painted across his features.

“What?” I ask.

“You seriously ordered grilled fish and spinach? When there’s a walking taco on the menu that’s literally just a bag ofFritoswith that horrible, processed meat you like?”

Don’t rub it in.

“I’m trying to make better choices.” Now that I have to be seen next to your waif-thin toy in a bikini.

“How’s that going for you?”

“I’m one day in.”

He laughs.

Him laughing is such a rare occurrence that I pause to appreciate it. He actually has a nice laugh—it’s warm, rich, and genuine. He doesn’t do pity laughs or fake smiles, so if you get one, it’s because you earned it.

Our eyes meet across the table. His expression is curious ... a little sad, a little hopeful. I’m not sure what to make of it.

I really wish I hadn’t shown his photo to Tessa. I also really wish Tessa hadn’t pointed out how attractive he is.

“Here’s a serious question for you,” I say, watching Hayes stab aimlessly at his plate. He looks up and meets my eyes. “Are you angry at that piece of salmon?”

He grumbles and nearly snaps the plastic fork in two. “This thing is worthless.”

“It’s afork, Hayes, chill.” Is he seriously so pampered that he can’t use a plastic fork?!

He holds it up. “This is not a fork. Cutlery shouldn’t be biodegradable.”

“Excuse me,” I say, pointing a plastic knife at him. “Think of the environment.”

“I am,” he insists. “Surely it wouldn’t take much extra work to offer actual silverware and throw it in the dishwasher.”

He has a point. And here I thought he was just being snooty about eating with flimsy flatware. Though to be fair, he probably is.

“So where are you and the old man headed next?” Malachi asks me, trying to make conversation.

“I’m actually not sure. I’ve just been taking things one day at a time.”

Olivia sips her cocktail and tilts her head, like she’s weighing something over in her mind.

“You know,” she says, turning her attention to me, “it’s almostimpressivehow well you’ve managed to keep up. I imagine all of this”—she gestures vaguely at our idyllic surroundings—“must feel a little overwhelming for someone like you.”

I blink. “Someone like me?”