Page 43 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“Happy to be of service.”

“So what would you like to do today?” he asks.

I shrug. “Something touristy? Or is that totally boring for you?”

He told me on the flight that he’s been to Paris more times than he can count. I worried that meant he’d reject doing the touristy things like the Eiffel Tower—which is at the top of my bucket list.

“I’d be happy to show you some of my favorite spots,” he says with a warm smile. And, not going to lie, that smile makes me irrationally happy. This trip? Kind of a once-in-a-lifetime thing for me.

“What are some of your favorites?”

“Montmartre. I can’t do all the steps, but you could explore the area, visit Sacré-Cœur. We could get our portraits sketched by a local street artist. We’ll definitely see the Eiffel Tower, though I’d skip the observation decks. The view’s better from the Arc de Triomphe anyway.”

I nod, excited. “What about theMona Lisa?”

He removes his glasses, setting them on the table. “We can do the Louvre. I won’t last long walking around, but we could see theMona Lisa, maybe a few other pieces.”

I’ve read about so many spots—the Catacombs, the Panthéon, Notre-Dame—but I know we won’t hit them all. Still, the day already feels wide open with possibility. And best of all, Hayes isn’t here to annoy me.

Winning.

Chapter Eighteen

One Step at a Time

Frankie

I have to admit, Antibes is stupidly beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that makes you question your entire life’s trajectory—like, maybe I should have gone intoart dealingordiamond smugglingor whatever it is rich people do to afford places like this. The air smells like salt and sun-warmed stone, and the buildings lining the harbor are straight out of a watercolor painting.

After a few fun-filled days in Paris, Charles and I jetted off to the Cote d’Azur—the South of France.

It’s apparently a playground for the rich and famous. My research revealed that the likes of Leonardo DiCaprio, the Beckhams, and Beyoncé and Jay-Z had all vacationed here.

All this time when Charles was telling me about this trip, and that we’d be spending time onElysium, I thought it was a place. Maybe some fancy private island off the coast of Spain or something. I had no idea it was the name of his yacht.

When I googled it, I discovered that in ancient Greek mythology, Elysium was a paradise for gods.

Still, when we arrive at the marina, I’m unprepared for the stunning marvel before me.

This isn’t a yacht, it’s a floating, multistory mansion that could probably survive the apocalypse.

“Charles,” I mutter, staring up at the gleaming white vessel. “This thing has a helipad.”

He barely glances up from his phone. “Mmm.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are we expecting someone to drop in viahelicopter?”

“No, but it’s nice to have options.”

I want to argue thatnormalpeople’s options are, like, economy vs. extra legroom, notwhich airborne vehicle should I descend from today?But before I can, a sharply dressed man in a crisp white uniform approaches.

“Welcome aboardElysium,” he says, flashing the polished smile of a man who hasneverbeen overwhelmed by an eight-figure boat. His accent is hard to place. European, though. “I’m Captain Laurent. I trust your journey was smooth?”

Before I can answer, Charles says, “Lovely, thank you.”

“Allow me to introduce Colette, miss,” Captain Laurent continues, gesturing to a petite brunette with effortless grace and a clipboard that suggests she means business. “She’s our chief stewardess and will ensure your stay is exceptional.”