Page 57 of How to Train Your Billionaire

I hug Charles goodbye and follow the group. Perched above us, the lights of Monaco twinkle in the distance. Kira and Jack lead the way, sharing a bottle of wine between them and talking loudly. Colette and Sebastian are next, then me, followed by Hayes, who’s looking at me funny as I navigate the stairs in heels.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I release a sigh. “I’m wearing a thong.” Which has migrated practically inside me.

“Oh—kay?” He sounds confused.

“I’m normally a granny panty type of girl,” I say by way of explanation.

The crease in between Hayes’s eyebrows only deepens.

“Never mind,” I settle on.

Tessa would understand. She often makes fun of my underwear choice and would get what a monumental occasion this is. One that is never going to happen again, by the way, because these things are terrible. I’d rather have a root canal while being run over by a car than shove dental floss up my ass ever again.

“You’re sure not like the other girls, are you?” he says, shaking his head. I can’t tell based on his tone if he finds it oddly refreshing or just odd.

I shrug and keep walking, moving past him while trying not to notice how good he smells.Dear God ...

Chapter Twenty-Three

When Walls Come Down

Hayes

The bass thrums through my chest, an unrelenting pulse that matches the headache brewing behind my eyes. Monaco’s nightlife is exactly what I expected—too loud, too flashy, too many desperate men looking for an easy way to impress women. And right now, they’re all looking at Francesca.

I lean against the bar, watching as some guy in a too-tight button-down leans in closer to her, flashing what I’m sure he thinks is a charming grin. Frankie laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and something sharp twists in my chest.

Where the hell are our drinks?

The bartender slides a cocktail her way first—of course—while I’m left waiting, jaw tightening as I watch the guy introduce himself. His hand hovers near Frankie’s arm, testing the boundaries of contact, and I catch myself scowling.

I’m not jealous. That would be ridiculous.

But I am irritated. Annoyed. Mildly homicidal, maybe.

I’m not sure what’s come over me.

Frankie’s still laughing, oblivious to my mood, but when she finally turns, her eyes catch mine. Something in my expression must tip her off, because her smile falters for just a second before she smirks.

“Why do you look like you’re plotting a murder?” she teases, raising her glass.

“Just enjoying the show,” I say flatly, finally grabbing my drink. “Didn’t realize you had such a fan club.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. He was just being friendly.”

I take a slow sip of my whiskey, letting the burn settle. “Yeah? He gets much friendlier, and I might have to remind him you didn’t come here alone.”

Frankie snorts. “What, you planning to fight him?”

I arch a brow. “You think I’d lose?”

She hums, pretending to consider. “Hard to say. He looks scrappy.”

I glance back at the guy, unimpressed. “He looks like he moisturizes more than he works out.”

Frankie’s laugh is sudden and real, and for some reason, that sound takes the edge off. Maybe I’m being ridiculous. Maybe it doesn’t matter if men look at her, talk to her, want her attention.