Page 121 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“Yes. No. Maybe.” He stands up, starts pacing the deck. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Be vulnerable without a safety net. Ask for things I want instead of things that make sense.”

I watch him pace, this beautiful, complicated man who’s learned to crack jokes and eat carbs and let me see him fall apart.

“What do you want, Hayes?”

He stops pacing. Looks at me like I’m holding the answer to every question he’s ever had.

“You. Forever. In every way that matters.”

My heart does that hummingbird thing it’s been doing since the first time he kissed me.

“That’s all you had to say.”

“Is it a yes?”

“It’s an ‘ask me properly and find out.’”

Hayes grins—the real one, not the polished version he shows investors. “I can work with that.”

Three hours later, I’m getting ready for dinner when my phone buzzes with a text from Hayes.

Hayes:Meet me on the upper deck. Wear the blue dress.

I find the blue dress—the one he bought me in Paris, the one that makes me feel like a movie star—and head upstairs.

The upper deck is transformed. String lights everywhere, candles, a table set for two overlooking the sunset. It’s like something out of a romance novel.

Hayes stands by the railing in a navy suit, holding a small velvet box.

“Oh, shit.”

“That’s not the reaction I was hoping for.”

“I mean ... oh, wow. Good wow. Not bad wow.”

“Better.”

He’s nervous. I can tell because his tie’s perfectly straight—he only obsesses over details when he’s freaking out internally.

“Francesca.”

“Yeah?”

“Last year you walked into my uncle’s life and changed everything. You made him laugh again. You made him remember what it felt like to live instead of just exist.”

My throat gets tight.

“But what you did to me was even bigger. You made me remember what it felt like to want something. Really want it, not just accept what was expected.”

“Hayes . . .”

“I’m not finished.” He drops to one knee, and my brain short-circuits. “You make me want to be better. Not perfect—you’ve made it very clear you have no use for perfect—but better. Real. Present.”

He opens the box. The ring is gorgeous—vintage, unique, nothing like the massive rocks other billionaires probably buy their girlfriends.