Page 54 of How to Train Your Billionaire

It’s late—so late that even the gentle rocking of the yacht has settled into a slow, steady rhythm, lulling the world into quiet. But sleep won’t come. Instead, I’m stretched out on the couch in the main salon, aimlessly scrolling on my phone, pretending I’m not waiting for something.

And then I hear it—the low murmur of voices, the distinct sound of bare feet padding along the teak decking. A second later, the door swings open, and in walks Hayes.

With a date.

She’s blond, stunning, and barely old enough to order the drink she’s currently giggling over. She clings to his arm like he’s the last lifeboat on theTitanic, her other hand pressing against his chest as she murmurs something in a breathy voice.

I go rigid as a sharp and completely unreasonable wave of irritation slams through me.

“Oops, is this the lobby?” she asks, blinking at me as if surprised to find another human on board.

“Nope,” I deadpan, crossing my arms. “Just me. Living here. Existing.”

She giggles—an airy, tipsy sound that makes my jaw clench. Hayes, on the other hand, looks ... tired. Not guilty, not smug, just vaguely exasperated, like a man who accidentally picked the slowest checkout line at the store but is too polite to abandon it now.

“Francesca,” he greets me, his voice low and even, as if this is the most normal situation in the world.

“Hayes.” I give him a tight, saccharine smile. “Nice night?”

The model—because let’s be real, shehasto be a model—tilts her head up at him. “You didn’t tell me there was aroommatesituation,” she purrs.

Oh, for the love of—

I glare at Hayes, waiting for him to correct her. To clarify that I am absolutelynothis roommate but rather the unfortunate witness to his questionable life choices. But he just exhales through his nose, a small, concerned look on his stern features, and steers her gently toward the hallway leading to his room.

“Good night, Francesca,” he says, and before I can even formulate a cutting response, he disappears below deck with his ... companion.

I stare after them, my blood simmering.

Unbelievable.

I am not mad. That would be ridiculous. He can do whatever he wants. Sleep with whoever he wants. Date whatever human embodiment of an Instagram filter he wants.

Nope. Not mad at all.

I shove my phone under a pillow, yank a blanket over my head, and pretend I don’t care.

Badly.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Don’t Rock the Boat

Frankie

The morning sun glints off the still water of the marina, the air crisp and carrying the faintest scent of salt. It would be a perfect morning—if not for the fact that I’m currently trapped at a breakfast table withhim.

Hayes looks obnoxiously well rested and freshly showered, his dark hair slightly tousled in a way that probably costs a fortune at some fancy salon but just happens naturally for him. He sips his espresso, flipping through something on his phone like hedidn’twaltz in with a baby-faced supermodel last night.

I’ve noticed a pattern. The idea of having a “type” is that you’re attracted to something familiar. So being wealthy and thin and emotionally immature is somehow comforting and familiar to him. I guess in the same way that my type is bad boys or jerks because I never knew my father and probably stored up buried anger over that fact.

Clearly neither of us knew jack squat about picking an appropriate partner—something we had in common.

Charles, blissfully unaware, takes a bite of his omelet and glances between us. “You look upset,” he says to me. “Did something happen?”

I stab my fork into a piece of fruit, leveling my gaze at Hayes. “Oh, nothing,” I say airily. “Just a lot ofmovementlast night. Did you feel the boat rocking?”

Charles frowns, thoughtful. “No, actually. It was pretty still—” His expression shifts to realization. “Oh. Ohhh.” He sighs, rubbing his temples. “Hayes, for God’s sake, did you really—”