Page 41 of How to Train Your Billionaire

Instead, I lean back on the couch, arm slung over the backrest.

“What’s the situation here? Should I be worried about a pony uprising?”

She rolls her eyes but grins. “No, Hayes. This is a rescue mission. The ponies are saving their friend from the evil king.”

I nod, solemn. “High stakes.”

She sighs. “Obviously.”

She moves one of the horses forward, then glances up, her tone shifting.

“You were gone forever.”

I exhale, raking a hand through my hair. “It wasn’t that long.”

She shrugs and twists a tiny unicorn between her fingers. “Long enough.”

I don’t know what to say to that. It’s not like I was avoiding home. But I also wasn’t racing back.

Still, sitting here now, watching her launch a magical battle with plastic ponies, something inside me settles.

I pick up a tiny knight and flip it over in my palm. “Think there’s room for one more in this rescue mission?”

Her eyes light up. “Only if you don’t make your guy annoying.”

“No promises.”

She giggles, shaking her head.

And just like that, I realize—I missed this. I missed her.

And maybe, just maybe, I’m done keeping the things that matter at arm’s length.

Chapter Seventeen

Make the Most of It

Frankie

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” I ask Charles for the third time.

He looks more tired than usual, a little pale around the edges. Though to be fair, I’m probably not winning any beauty contests either.

We flew from JFK to CDG—that’s New York to Paris, for the uninitiated—on an overnight flight. And we are now sitting in the charming hotel lobby, picking through the complimentary continental breakfast.

It’s one of the many things I’ve come to appreciate about Charles. You’d think he’d be more snooty for a billionaire, but he’s perfectly content with a free breakfast spread. And obviously, so am I. Why wander the streets in search of a boulangerie when there are perfectly good croissants downstairs?

He waves off my concern. “Not you too.”

“Just asking.” I smile and take a sip of my café au lait—just coffee with milk, but it sounds far more romantic in French. It’s also out-of-this-world good. And mypain au chocolatcroissant is so flaky and delicate, it basically evaporates on my tongue.

“I’m doing just fine,” Charles says, patting my hand.

The quiet hum of morning conversation blends with the soft clink of porcelain cups. The boutique hotel lobby is elegant, downright cinematic. Sunlight filters through tall, arched windows, casting a golden glow over the black-and-white checkered marble floors. Deep emerald velvet chairs surround gold-trimmed round tables, each topped with a single fresh flower in a delicate vase. The air smells like espresso and warm pastries. I’ve been here all of a few hours, and I already love Paris.

“Did you get today’sWordle?” he asks, glancing toward my phone.

I’m mid-text to Tessa, who I saw once for a wine-and-wedge after returning from Hawaii. Now she’s apparently in crisis mode.