Page 51 of How to Train Your Billionaire

She grins. “Yeah, but you just spent the last half hour making sure I didn’t die, so what does that say about you?”

I don’t have an answer for that. And that realization is the most unsettling part of all.

We sit in what can only be described as a comfortable silence—our first ever—for a few moments, both of us looking out at the horizon. It’s going to be a beautiful day, sunny with a light breeze.

“So why are you going to Monaco?” she asks.

“I need to pick up something. I always do a gift for my team each year at our big annual event, and I decided to do custom bottles of rosé. There’s this prestigious vineyard in Provence, and they’re engraving the bottles for me with their names and a short message. They’ve sent them on ahead to Monaco for me.”

“Wow, that’s generous of you.”

“It’s a splurge, but they deserve it.”

“Okay, Daddy Big Bucks.” She winks.

Call me Daddy one more time ...

Chapter Twenty-One

Stay in Your Lane

Frankie

The morning sun warms the air and casts a soft glow over the elegantly set breakfast table. Charles sits across from me, stirring his coffee, his expression mildly amused as I continue my latest deep dive into French history. Hayes is nowhere to be found.

“So, did you know,” I say, leaning forward to help myself to another croissant, “that Marie Antoinette never actually said ‘Let them eat cake’? It was just propaganda to make her look bad. People wanted a villain, and she was an easy target.”

Charles lifts a brow, setting his spoon down. “You don’t say.”

“I do say!” I gesture, nearly knocking over my orange juice. “She was just a teenager—fourteen years old—when she married King Louis XVI—shipped over from Austria and expected to fit into this crazy, extravagant court life at Versailles. And, okay, maybe she spent too much on dresses and parties, but honestly? Can you blame a girl?”

He makes a noncommittal sound.

I shrug, taking a bite of my croissant. “Do you know how old she was when she was beheaded?”

Charles shakes his head.

“Thirty-seven.”

He takes a sip of coffee, studying me over the rim. “And what’s got you so interested in French history all of a sudden?”

I grin. “We’re in France, Charles. You can’t just float around a country like this and not get curious. So I went down a research rabbit hole.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, I can’t say I expected to get a history lesson with my breakfast, but it’s not the worst way to start the day.”

I lean back in my chair, satisfied. “Just wait until I tell you about the Affair of the Diamond Necklace. Nowthat’sa scandal.”

After breakfast, I change into my swimsuit, grab a paperback, and head to the sundeck.

We’re nearing our next stop, and the view from the port side captures my attention. I thought Monaco would be prettier. That’s my first reaction. There are an awful lot of orange high-rises perched along a fortified hill. I guess I was expecting more, given how pretty the rest of the Riviera has been.

I’m distracted, so it takes me a moment to notice I’m not alone.

I round the corner near the outdoor shower and freeze mid-step.

Hayes stands under the spray, water streaming over his face and his chest, sliding down the ridges of his obliques and his pale, muscled ass before dripping onto the teak wood beneath his bare feet. And for a second, I forget how to move, how to breathe.

I should turn around. Walk away. But my feet betray me, and instead, I stay rooted in place, my gaze dragging up the length of him like a traitor.