Page 4 of How to Train Your Billionaire

Greta chuckles a little too enthusiastically. “Exactly.”

I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks, because apparently the junior accountant candidate, Francesca Anderson, is thepsychopathI met a few days ago by the vending machine downtown.

She gives me a shaky smile, clearly recognizing me as well.

I decide the only way to get through this is to be all business. That way, I won’t notice her full lips ... or the fact that I’m suddenly paying far too much attention to a junior accountant’s button-up top.

Plus, remembering what a disaster she was quells any interest from my misplaced libido.

“Miss Anderson? I’m Hayes Winters.” She rises to her feet and gives my outstretched hand a firm, efficient shake.

“You can call me Frankie, everyone does,” she says, much calmer and more composed than she was the last time I saw her.

“Great, and I’ll leave you two. You’re in good hands, Frankie,” Greta says. “Hayes is fantastic at making difficult things look easy.”

I nod my gratitude to Greta, who’s blissfully unaware of the awkward tension stirring between me and the monster in the cream-colored suit.

“You can follow me to my office,” I say, turning for the door as soon as Frankie grabs her purple sparkly portfolio covered in a barrage of stickers.

That’s a . . . bold choice.

“Thanks for coming in today. Take a seat.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Before we dig in, did you have any questions?”

She slides into the chair in front of my desk, placing her hands in her lap. “I have to admit, the whole family-office concept was new for me. This wouldn’t be a personal assistant position, would it? Because with my background, I would really prefer to stay in accounting.”

“No, we have a team who handles lifestyle management.”

“Lifestyle management?” She blinks at me. “What does that entail?”

“Handling personal affairs of the family, like real estate purchases, managing yachts and private jets, arranging logistics for travel, personal security, things like that.”

“Wow. I mean, I’ve seen the showSuccession, but I guess I didn’t think people actually lived like this.” She grins nervously, clearly out of her element.

She’s acting so normal now, it’s almost a shame I have to do this.

“I’m sorry, but can we just cut to the chase and address the elephant in the room?”

“By all means.” Her smile softens and then fades, as if she senses where I’m headed.

Maybe she was hoping I wouldn’t have the balls to mention it. But it’s not in my personality to sidestep things that are uncomfortable—I’m more of a bulldoze-my-way-straight-through kind of guy.

I lean forward, placing my elbows on the desk. “First, what kind of person assaults a vending machine? Truly. I’d like to know.”

She frowns. “Is that one of your standard interview questions?”

“It is.”

She pauses to straighten her shoulders. “I was having a bad day, in case you didn’t notice.”

I did notice, which was why I stopped to offer my help. She looked tired, pale. A little sad. And while I don’t deal with emotional women well, I wanted to lend a hand. And then she all but bit my head off. We run things very drama-free around here, and based on what I saw, Francesca Anderson is a loose cannon.

“I figured as much, but it still speaks to your character—I can’t exactly have an employee who might have a bad day and go off the rails on a potential investor. We all have bad days sometimes.”

She makes a noise that I can only describe as an annoyed huff.

She’s annoyed atme? That’s rich.

“I think we can both agree this is going nowhere,” I say calmly, folding my hands on the desk in front of me. “I might as well save us both the time. This interview is over.”