Page 50 of How to Train Your Billionaire

The thought blindsides me.

Francesca,cute?

I shake it off. Probably just some weird instinctual sympathy thing. Or maybe I just like seeing her too out of it to hurl insults at me.

She rests her head in her hands and closes her eyes. “Just leave me here to die, I don’t want to bring you down with me.”

“Don’t be cute right now. That’s not helping.”

She cracks one eye open. “Helping what?”

My raging inappropriate crush on you.

“Nothing. Never mind.” I reach for a water bottle and shove it in her direction. “Here. Sip.”

She does, barely managing two swallows before glaring at me. “If I puke, I’m making sure some of it gets on you.”

I smirk, settling back. “Not if I throw you overboard first.”

That earns me a weak middle finger before she slumps back down. I roll my eyes, but—God help me—I’m still grinning.

Maybe sheisa disaster. But for some reason, I don’t mind that as much as I used to.

Frankie lifts her head a few minutes later, blinking like she’s just woken from a coma. There’s still a little pallor to her face, but the sickly green tint is fading. Progress.

She exhales, slumping against the cushion. “Okay. I think I’m past the I’d-rather-die-than-exist phase.”

“Shame,” I say, smirking. “I was just about to start planning your sea burial.”

She glares, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re hilarious.” Then, to my surprise, she actually sits up and gives me a look that’s almost ... appreciative. “You’re brilliant. Thanks for the meds, they were exactly what I needed.”

“You’re playing it fast and loose with the b-word, but you’re welcome.”

“And thanks for the distraction. And for not throwing me overboard. Very chivalrous of you.”

I tilt my head. “It was nothing, but since you’re officially back among the living, I believe it’s your turn.”

Her brows knit. “My turn for what?”

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “I told you something weird about me. Now it’s your turn to share a fun fact.”

She groans. “Ugh. Fine.” She thinks for a second, then mutters, “I can’t eat gummy bears.”

I blink. “What?”

“They’re too tragic,” she explains. “They have faces. And little stubby arms. I can’t bite into them without feeling like a monster.”

I stare at her. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

She shrugs. “Call it what you want, but I refuse to be responsible for the violent deaths of tiny, innocent bears.”

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “So let me get this straight—you won’t eat gummy bears because they have faces, but you’ll eat, what, chicken nuggets? Steak?”

She waves a hand. “Those don’t have eyes looking back at me,Hayes.”

It’s so ridiculous, soher, that I just stare for a second. She’s still pale, still slightly wilted, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. The same quick wit, the same unpredictable spark that’s always made her impossible to ignore.

I roll my eyes, but there’s no bite behind it. “You’re certifiable, you know that?”