Page 16 of How to Train Your Billionaire

Charles nods. “I haven’t had it in ages, though.”

My body revolts at the smell. “It’s even worse than I imagined. How can something so disgusting even exist?”

“Will you be nice and shut the Smurf up,” Francesca says.

“Pardon?” I blink, dumbfounded.

She lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m trying not to curse.”

That’s curious ... I wonder if Charles told her it was unbecoming for a lady.

“And you thought replacing a random word in place of a swear was the way to do it?”

“Yes, I did. You have a problem with that?”

I shrug. “Suppose I did.” I don’t, for the record—I just ... want to see what she’ll do.

“Then I’d tell you to Frappuccino off.”

I cough into my fist to hide the strange urge to laugh.Do not encourage her,I repeat silently to myself.

Charles ignores our bickering and cuts into his sausage, placing a bite into his mouth. I’m sure this is not part of a heart-healthy diet, but I avoid pointing that out, because he really does seem to be enjoying this.

I’m already running late, but there’s no way I’m going to miss Francesca tasting the sausage on her plate.

She hesitates, staring down at the grayish-brown mass. She pokes at it with her fork, frowning.

I cross my arms and grin, watching her squirm in discomfort.

With a deep breath, she picks up her fork, mentally preparing herself for the first bite. She stabs a large piece with her fork and brings it to her lips with an expression that can only be described as “trepidation.” I can already tell she’s not sure what she’s getting herself into.

“Are you sure you want to try that?” I ask, trying (and failing) to hide my amusement.

She shrugs. “How bad can it be?”

“It’s delicious,” Uncle Charles answers.

Just when I think she’s going to chicken out, she places the whole thing in her mouth.

Bold move.

I wait for her face to contort as if she’s just bitten into a rotten apple. And in some weird way, my respect level for her increases as I watch her chew. She’s done all this for my uncle—who’s clearly enjoying his dinner.

I wait for her to grab her water and chug it down, trying to rid her mouth of the horror she just experienced. I brace myself for the usual reaction—grimacing, gagging, a look of pure betrayal as she realizes just how awful liverwurst is.

But . . . she doesn’t.

She just chews slowly, then ... she smiles.

I blink.

She’s still chewing, but her face softens, almost ... content. “This is ... really good,” she says, surprising the hell out of me. “Like, I could eat this every day.”

My mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Wait. What?”

She looks as stunned as I feel. “Yeah.” She forks a second piece with enthusiasm. “It’s like a savory mystery wrapped in deliciousness. I could definitely get used to this.”

I shake my head. “You’re messing with me. No one actually likes liverwurst. It’s a rite of passage to hate it.”