Page 80 of How to Train Your Billionaire

Charles appears in the doorway, looking older than usual.

“He’s gone,” he says unnecessarily.

“Good.” I scrub harder. “More room for the rest of us.”

“Frankie.”

“What?” I turn, and whatever he sees on my face makes him frown.

“Come here.”

I don’t want to. I want to keep scrubbing things until my hands are raw and I stop feeling like someone hollowed me out with a spoon.

But Charles has that look—the one that says he’s about to dispense grandfatherly wisdom whether I want it or not.

I sink into the chair across from him.

“My nephew,” he says carefully, “is an idiot.”

Despite everything, I almost smile. “Yeah. I’m starting to figure that out.”

“He’s also terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Of being happy.”

The words settle between us like stones.

“His parents screwed him up pretty good,” Charles continues. “Made him think love was just another way to get hurt. So he runs when things get real.”

“Well, he’s good at it,” I mutter.

Charles reaches across and pats my hand. “Give him time.”

“Time for what? To find another supermodel to bang and abandon?”

The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.

“Time to realize what he’s lost.”

I pull my hand away. “Charles, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not going to sit around waiting for some emotionally constipated idiot to figure out his feelings. I have more self-respect than that.”

At least, I’m trying to.

Charles nods slowly. “Good. Youshouldhave more self-respect than that.”

Wait. That’s not the response I expected.

“But,” he continues, “you should also know that I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

“Yeah? And how’s that?”

“Like he’s drowning, and you’re the life raft.”

That night, I stand on the deck, watching the sunset paint the Mediterranean in shades of pink and gold. It’s beautiful. Postcard perfect.

I feel like garbage.