Page 39 of How to Train Your Billionaire

I guess Hayes will do.

Our friendship might be a bit ... bumpy.

But for now, it’s a road worth traveling.

When we’re finished and he’s loaded our plates into the dishwasher, he turns to me.

“I have a confession to make.”

We’re only a foot apart now, and he’s towering over me—his jawline distractingly chiseled, hair tousled in a way that feels unfair to the rest of humanity. I force myself not to notice.

“I was there ... at the Low Tide Lounge.”

I blink. “You were spying on me?”

“Not spying. Just . . . observing.”

“Then you must’ve noticed how painfully awkward it got. How abruptly it ended.”

He shakes his head. “When you left together, I figured you were going home with him.”

Now I’m really blinking. “I’m not that kind of girl, Hayes.”

The words come out soft, a little breathy—and I instantly regret how flirty they sound. But it’s too late. The air has shifted.

He steps closer. Not much, just enough.

His hand comes up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and then he lingers—his fingers trailing lightly down my cheek, like he doesn’t want to stop touching me. “You were too good for him.” His voice is low. Rough around the edges.

A breath escapes me. Slow. Unsteady.

It does nothing to calm the wild thrum in my chest.

For a second, I think he might kiss me. And worse—I think I might let him.

I step back, murmur a quiet “Good night,” and bolt from the kitchen on shaky legs.

Chapter Sixteen

Learn to Let Go of Control

Hayes

The following day, I drop Malachi off at the airport, knowing my own time in Hawaii is also quickly coming to a close. I fly out late tomorrow afternoon. Back to New York. I’ve worked while I’ve been here, sure, but there’s a long list of things waiting for me back home.

As I drive back to the house, I catch myself replaying last night. The way Francesca sat on the counter—tired but slightly amused, like she hadn’t completely given up on the night. Like being there, with me, wasn’t the worst possible outcome.

It was . . . easy.

No sharp words. No power plays. Just quiet back-and-forth. And damn it if I don’t find myself thinking—I wouldn’t mind doing that again.

When I walk through the door, it’s quiet, except for the low hum of the TV. I assume Frankie and my uncle are having a low-key night, and I debate whether to join them.

A thunderous fart rings out from the living room. I have no way of knowing if it was Charles or Francesca, but either way, I give it a few minutes to clear. I have my limits.

I take a breath, compose myself, and casually stroll in. “Hey.”

“Shh,” Francesca whispers, pointing toward Charles.