Page 38 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“Told ya.”

“Damn. Okay, fair. You were right. You suck at this. Let me handle it.”

I step aside. “Be my guest. Feed me.”

“Is that why you live on gas station snacks?” He smirks like he’s got me figured out.

I shake my head. “No, I just genuinely love junk food.”

“Fair enough.”

While Hayes begins cooking, I clean up said junk food, because despite his chill attitude, I’m pretty sure he’s still secretly judging me. He side-eyed the canned bean dip pretty hard, though to be honest, it does look weird. Tastesamazing, but yeah, it looks weird.

While he works, I’m transfixed. There’s just something about a man who’s volunteered to cook for you. Even if that man isHayes.

He moves around the kitchen with the kind of efficiency that shouldn’t be attractive butis. Sleeves rolled up, his hair slightly mussed, he tilts the pan, giving it a quick flick of his wrist, and the omelet folds over perfectly.

I prop my chin on my hand. “You know, this is almost disorienting. You being ... nice.”

“I can take it back.”

“No, no—by all means, keep the omelet coming.”

He smirks but doesn’t argue, sliding the food onto a plate before setting it in front of me. “So. How was your date?”

I stab my fork into the eggs, debating how honest I want to be.

“Let’s just say, if I never go out again with a guy who describes himself as an ‘alpha’ in his dating profile, it’ll still be too soon.”

Hayes exhales through his nose. It’s dangerously close to a laugh. “Noted.” He plates an omelet for himself and looks over at me. “And for the record, if a guy has to tell you he’s an alpha, he’s definitely not one.”

“Seems like a low bar for self-awareness.”

“You’d think. And yet.”

I take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. It’s ... annoyingly good. The bacon is perfectly crisp, the cheddar rich and melty.

Of course Hayes would nail something as deceptively simple as an omelet.

I glance up, expecting smugness, but he’s just leaning against the counter, watching me with that unreadable expression.

And for once, the silence between us doesn’t feel like a contest.

“You know, this is weird,” I say.

He lifts a brow. “What is?”

“Us. Not fighting. I’m not saying I miss the bickering, but ... it’s kind of our thing.”

He tilts his head. “Maybe we just needed a ceasefire.”

I poke at my omelet. “Or maybe we’re too tired to keep our knives out.”

His lips twitch like he wants to argue, but instead, he just nods. “Maybe.”

And weirdly, that feels like progress.

Out here, I have no one. And sometimes, you just need a friend. Someone to talk to about a bad date. Someone to eat late-night eggs with.