Page 1 of How to Train Your Billionaire

Chapter One

Embrace Your Quirks

Frankie

“So, you had no idea this was coming?” Tessa asks through the phone.

I heave my laptop bag onto my shoulder and let out a long breath. “None whatsoever.”

Just like any other weekday, I trudged downtown by way of the city bus. But this time, when I got to the office, my boss called me in to say I was being laid off—effective immediately. I’d cleaned out my cubicle in a state of shock and hugged my work bestie goodbye, and now I’m wandering the street with an overflowing cardboard box carrying my personal effects.

I’d promptly called my best friend, Tessa, still feeling numb and confused. She’s been my person for the past decade or so and always has fantastic advice. I need it now more than ever.

“You’re a terrific accountant, you’ll find something in no time.”

“Lies, all lies. If I was so terrific, why’d they let me go?” I groan. “I’ll sell feet pics to get by if I have to.”

“Francesca,” Tessa says firmly. She reserves my full name for times such as this—when I’m melting down. And it must have the desired effect, because my mouth snaps shut.I am a terrific accountant, damnit.“You’ll find something else,” she says sternly. “And in the meantime, I’m here for you—anything you need.”

“Thanks,” I grumble, sinking onto a nearby bench.

Setting the box beside me, I release a long, weary exhale and realize the bus schedule doesn’t have any return trips this time of day. It looks like I might be here for a while.

But if there’s one thing my thirty years on this planet have taught me, it’s to expect the unexpected. Skirt tucked into the back of my underwear on the city bus? No big deal. Smoothie stain down the front of my cream silk blouse? Just your average Tuesday.

Last week, I dropped my phone on the sidewalk, and it exploded into a million pieces. The week before, I had an incident with a tube of superglue and ended up gluing my fingers together for half the day. That was a great look for the client meeting, let me tell you.

In real life, I’m a walking disaster—inexplicable mishaps seem to follow me wherever I go. Maybe that’s why I crave the structure of my work. Being an accountant is the one thing I’m good at. Numbers have always made sense.

And not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty muchamazingat what I do. During my eight-year tenure with Prime Solutions, I’d like to think I made a positive impact. I automated the monthly reporting, identified a six-figure savings, and found overlooked deductions on this year’s corporate tax return. Not to mention, I planned all the office birthday parties. Rosa in marketing is turning sixty next month. Who will be there to make sure she gets more than the standard sheet cake and birthday card? Probably no one, that’s who.

I really wish I hadn’t spilled my protein shake, because I’m now starving.

Spotting a vending machine, I sandwich my phone between my ear and my shoulder. “I’ll call you later, okay?” I say to Tessa.

“Of course. I think we need to put a wine-and-wedge on the calendar.”

“Yes, please.”

Wine-and-wedge Wednesdays started after college, when we entered the working world and quickly realized how chaotic and exhausting adulthood could be. One particularly brutal week, after we’d both survived another miserable round of meetings, deadlines, and bad dates, we met up for happy hour at a cozy little bar downtown. The kind of place with dim lighting, an extensive wine list, and the perfect ambiance for unwinding. Tessa ordered us both glasses of the cheapest chardonnay they had, along with a wedge salad. The salads were massive, topped with blue cheese, crunchy bacon bits, and that perfect creamy dressing. We indulged in wine and girl talk, and somehow soon, we were laughing. Not because anything was funny, but because it was enough to remind us that life wasn’t all bad.

Now, it’s like a sacred tradition for us. It sounds simple, but it makes everything seem a little less overwhelming.

“Bye, babe. Chin up,” she says.

I make an incomprehensible sound.

A small group of commuters carrying laptop bags shuffle past me on my way to the vending machine. They’re in a hurry to get where they’re going and seem oblivious to my inner turmoil.

I stop in front of the vending machine, torn between the hotCheetosand the sensible protein bar. I swipe my card and punch in the code for theCheetos. If there was ever a time for comfort food, it’s this one.

The machine makes a whirring sound, but my snack stays put.

Rude!

I swipe my card again and watch,again, as the vending machine takes my two dollars but doesn’t give me my snack. I repeat this process twice more before pounding my fist against the glass. “Come on, you bastard!”

A man dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe notices the commotion and pauses. “Everything okay?”