Page 37 of How to Train Your Billionaire

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. “Great. Now I have to come back in the morning and pay our bill.”

Ryder claps a hand over his heart, mock wounded. “Frankie, Frankie. Where’s the trust?”

“Somewhere back at the bar, along with our tab.” I jerk my thumb toward the bar.

He just shrugs. “I’m a little low on cheddar right now, but it’s fine. I’ll get them back next time. I’m sure it all evens out in the end.”

That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.

“So that’s a no to the taco truck?” He gives me a hopeful look.

“It’s a no to the taco truck.” It’s a sentence I never anticipated needing to say.

He flashes me a peace sign and strolls away without a care in the world.

I make it back home a short time later, and unsurprisingly, Charles is asleep. I have no idea where Hayes and Malachi are. I decide emergency carbo-loading is in order. First, I change out of my dress, opting for leggings and an oversize T-shirt.

Once I’m cozy, I raid the pantry and grab anything that looks good—Fritosand canned bean dip, Swedish Fish and a bag of trail mix that I don’t remember buying. Then I begin filling the void, one chip at a time. What? It’s a totally reasonable coping mechanism.

From the foyer, I hear the front door open and then close, then male voices. Hayes and Malachi are home, it seems. They must have also called it an early night. It’s not even nine.

Footsteps move closer, and Hayes appears in the kitchen doorway. He seems surprised to see me here.

“You’re home.” His tone isn’t judgmental, and for that I’m grateful. I’m not exactly feeling the best about myself right now.

“We decided to call it a night.” I wash my hands at the sink and grab a dish towel.

“Gotcha.” He stands there, sort of staring at me in an odd way.

“Anyways, I skipped dinner, and I’m hungry.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain my snack-attack. I don’t owe him an explanation.

But he’s still just standing there, watching me.

“I could eat,” he says, pocketing his phone. “Do you want me to make you something? A sandwich or an omelet or something?”

“Um ... sure?” Hayes being nice to me is a new development that my brain is struggling to comprehend.

He must sense my hesitation, because he’s still just watching me. “Unless you prefer to be alone?”

I shake my head. “Not at all.”

“Great. Omelets? I think we have some bacon leftover from breakfast ...”

“That sounds great, actually.” At the mention of real food, my stomach perks up in interest.

Hayes begins looting the fridge for ingredients. He finds a block of cheddar cheese and a bunch of green onions, along with butter, milk, and a carton of eggs.

I heft myself up onto the counter to watch while he heats a pat of butter in a sauté pan. “I love that you cook. I can’t even crack an egg.”

“Sure you can. Here, try it.”

I slide down from the counter, and Hayes places a small bowl for me on the counter, then he hands me an egg.

I let out a sigh. “You asked for it.”Here goes nothin’ ...

I crack the shell against the side of the bowl, and several things happen at once.

The yolk lands on the floor between our feet, and somehow the egg white ends up on his shirt. The only thing in the bowl is the cracked eggshell.