Page 67 of How to Train Your Billionaire

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The hallway is dim, lit only by the glow of an overhead bulb. It feels removed from everything else on the yacht, like we exist in our own little pocket of time.

I know he’s thinking about Charles, too, wondering if he is going to be okay.

“I talked to the chef about keeping red meat off the menu.”

Hayes nods.

“My uncle was always there for me growing up. My parents were a mess, but Charles always made time for me.”

“He’s one of the good ones,” I confirm.

Hayes lets his head fall back against the wall. “Growing up, my parents’ issues, coupled with their disinterest in me, left me wondering why I could never make them happy.” His voice is quiet, the kind of tone that makes me sit up a little straighter, like I am being let in on something real. “They were always too stuck in their own shit to really care.”

I swallow. I didn’t expect him to say that.

I watch the way his fingers toy with the wrench, spinning it absentmindedly. He says it so matter-of-factly, but I can hear the weight behind it.

“My uncle Charles never missed a single tennis match of mine. Not once. He joined the athletic booster club, bought all the spirit wear—would show up decked out in crimson and gold and just sit there, smiling.”

It’s a nice mental picture. A much more vibrant Charles watching, rapt, the tennis match of a young Hayes.

“The second you let your guard down,” he continues, his gaze fixed on some invisible point in the distance, “everything around you can topple like a house of cards.”

I exhale, my own thoughts pressing in on me. “Yeah,” I murmur, staring down at my hands. “I get that.”

Hearing his experiences is like peeling back the layers of an onion—I can see why he is the way he is.

I was fortunate to grow up just getting to be a kid. He was saddled with responsibilities and expectations that far outweighed his ability to manage them at such a young age. His parents’ messy dynamic, the drama that often accompanied any family function.

Hayes turns his head slightly, watching me. Waiting.

I hesitate, but then the words come out anyway. “I think I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out where I fit. Like if I could just be the right version of myself, everything would click into place. But it neverreally has.” I let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “It’s exhausting, honestly.”

He studies me, his expression unreadable. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “It is.”

It isn’t much. Just a few words. But somehow, it feels like understanding. Like maybe I’m not as alone in that feeling as I thought.

The hum of the engine fills the quiet between us, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It is something else entirely. Something heavier, unspoken. He shifts, his knee barely brushing against mine. A small touch, fleeting, but I feel it like a spark.

I’m not sure who moves first—him or me. Maybe neither of us do. Maybe we just exist in this strange little in-between space together, where words mean more than they usually do and silence says just as much.

“No one knows me like you do, Francesca.”

I love the way he says my name. Not Frankie, even though I told him to call me by my nickname a million times. Francesca. It rolls off his perfect lips like a sacred offering.

“That’s because you don’t let anyone get close enough,” I whisper, winking like it’s some big secret.

He meets my eyes. I expect him to laugh—to brush off my remark, but he doesn’t. His look is serious. “No, it’s because you really see me. Past all the excess and opulence, the name. You seeme.”

His praise feels oddly good, comforting and wholesome.

I can’t imagine that a man like Hayes Winters doles out compliments very often, so I decide I better soak in his words. They are like a balm to my soul. All I ever wanted was to be good at something. When I was young, it was math. Later, it was accounting ... Now, I suppose, it’s taking care of an old man on his last jaunt around the world.

“I convinced Charles to give you the day off tomorrow,” he says out of the blue.

I blink, turning my head toward him. “What?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Figured you wouldn’t ask for one yourself, so I did.”