Page 64 of How to Train Your Billionaire

I launch into a story about our latest obsession—RummiKub and how he beat me last night.

“What if I just slept with him?”

“Charles?!” she screeches. “He’s like ninety!”

“No!” I sputter, nearly choking. “Hayes!”

“Oh, I’m sure that will end well. You finally have a job you love, and you’re all going to be stuck together out at sea. Classic Frankie—might as well ruin it by sleeping with the boss’s jerk-nephew.”

I roll my eyes. She might be right, but I’m unable to completely abandon the idea. Maybe the salty ocean air has gotten to my head—messed with my brain somehow.

“Be sensible!” Tessa says, her tone sharp.

“Sensible who? Don’t know her.” I stick out my tongue and wave goodbye before pressing the button to end our call.

“What if we skipped our next port?” Charles says over breakfast the next morning.

“What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “It means, where’s your sense of adventure? Let’s stay out at sea, skip the whole stopping at every fancy port along with every other megayacht in the Med, and cruise around to Spain.”

“What would that entail?”

“A longer trip, I’d guess. We’d probably have to stop for provisions in Marseille.”

My brain jumps into overdrive. Before I can even process what this extended jaunt would mean for Hayes’s time on board, I’m busy thinking about Charles. Why the sudden change in plans? Is he doing okay?

I don’t love that he occasionally needs help getting up out of his chair and suddenly can’t seem to remember to take his pills without me reminding him. But he seems happy and in good spirits, and he loves being on the water just as much as I do. Life is good, at least for now, but that doesn’t mean it’s time to get complacent.

“When’s the last time you had a physical?” I ask him.

His mouth slips into a wry grin. “Why? Are you worried about me?”

“Maybe. We’ll be at sea for a couple of weeks. If something happened, we’d be far from a hospital. What if you just humor me by having a checkup before we go?”

“Whatever will make you happy.”

I arrange for a concierge doctor to visit the boat the next day when we stop in Marseille—just for my own peace of mind.

I knock softly on the door before pushing it open, then stepping into Charles’s cabin, where he sits on the edge of his bed, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. Dr. Fournier stands near the small desk, flipping through a leather-bound notebook, his brows drawn together in a way that makes my stomach tighten.

“Everything okay?” I ask, my voice careful, controlled.

Dr. Fournier looks up, offering a small, practiced smile. “Frankie. I was just going over Charles’s exam results.” He hesitates for a fraction of a second before continuing. “There are some concerns.”

Charles lets out an exaggerated sigh. “They always have concerns,” he mutters. “A doctor’s job is to be worried about things I have no time to worry about.”

Dr. Fournier doesn’t take the bait. He flips the notebook closed and tucks it under his arm. “His blood pressure is higher than I’d like. There are also some irregularities in his heart rate. Nothing immediately dangerous, but at his age, these are things we have to monitor closely.”

I swallow hard, shifting my gaze to Charles. He’s staring out the porthole, his jaw tight. I know him well enough to recognize the frustration in his silence. He hates this—hates being reminded that he’s anything other than invincible.

“What can we do?” I ask.

“I’d like to run further tests,” Dr. Fournier says, his voice calm but firm. “I can arrange for them at our next port. But beyond that, he needs rest. Less stress, better hydration. And, if I had my way, less red meat.”

Charles snorts. “Now that’s asking a lot.”

I shoot him a look, but he ignores it, still fixated on the ocean beyond the window. The light reflects in his silver hair, making him look older than I want to admit.