Page 98 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“Don’t speak ill of the dead.”

“I’m speaking truth to the dead.”

Another tile flies in my direction. This one I catch.

“You’re terrible at this,” I tell her.

“At what?”

“Throwing things. Your aim is shit.”

“I wasn’t actually trying to hit you.”

“Good thing. You’d miss.”

She picks up another tile, weighing it in her palm. “Want to test that theory?”

“Bring it.”

She throws the tile. I duck, laughing as it sails over my head.

“Told you.”

“Shut up.”

But she’s laughing too. Actually laughing, for the first time since Charles collapsed.

We play three more games. I win two, she wins one, and we both agree Charles would have kicked our asses.

“I should go,” I say around midnight.

Frankie’s curled up in Charles’s chair, looking smaller than ever in his oversize cardigan. She found it in his closet and hasn’t taken it off since.

“You don’t have to.”

“You need sleep.”

“I won’t sleep anyway.”

I know the feeling. I haven’t slept properly in weeks.

“Want me to stay?”

The question hangs between us. Not romantic. Not sexual. Just ... present.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I think I do.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

New Beginnings

Frankie

“Mrs. Goldstein, I understand your concerns about the Mediterranean cruise, but I promise you—the railings are perfectly safe.”

I’m sitting in my tiny office above a bagel shop in Hoboken, talking an eighty-year-old woman off the ledge about handrail height regulations while simultaneously trying to ignore the smell of everything seasoning wafting up through the floorboards.

Two months ago, I was sleeping on Tessa’s couch and entering data about toilet paper purchases. Now I’m the proud owner of Golden Adventures, a luxury travel company for seniors who want to see the world without breaking a hip.