How to Train Your Billionaire

Chapter One Embrace Your Quirks

Chapter One

Embrace Your Quirks

Frankie

“So, you had no idea this was coming?” Tessa asks through the phone.

I heave my laptop bag onto my shoulder and let out a long breath. “None whatsoever.”

Just like any other weekday, I trudged downtown by way of the city bus.

But this time, when I got to the office, my boss called me in to say I was being laid off—effective immediately.

I’d cleaned out my cubicle in a state of shock and hugged my work bestie goodbye, and now I’m wandering the street with an overflowing cardboard box carrying my personal effects.

I’d promptly called my best friend, Tessa, still feeling numb and confused. She’s been my person for the past decade or so and always has fantastic advice. I need it now more than ever.

“You’re a terrific accountant, you’ll find something in no time.”

“Lies, all lies. If I was so terrific, why’d they let me go?” I groan. “I’ll sell feet pics to get by if I have to.”

“Francesca,” Tessa says firmly. She reserves my full name for times such as this—when I’m melting down.

And it must have the desired effect, because my mouth snaps shut.

I am a terrific accountant, damn it. “You’ll find something else,” she says sternly.

“And in the meantime, I’m here for you—anything you need. ”

“Thanks,” I grumble, sinking onto a nearby bench.

Setting the box beside me, I release a long, weary exhale and realize the bus schedule doesn’t have any return trips this time of day. It looks like I might be here for a while.

But if there’s one thing my thirty years on this planet have taught me, it’s to expect the unexpected. Skirt tucked into the back of my underwear on the city bus? No big deal. Smoothie stain down the front of my cream silk blouse? Just your average Tuesday.

Last week, I dropped my phone on the sidewalk, and it exploded into a million pieces. The week before, I had an incident with a tube of superglue and ended up gluing my fingers together for half the day. That was a great look for the client meeting, let me tell you.

In real life, I’m a walking disaster—inexplicable mishaps seem to follow me wherever I go. Maybe that’s why I crave the structure of my work. Being an accountant is the one thing I’m good at. Numbers have always made sense.

And not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty much amazing at what I do.

During my eight-year tenure with Prime Solutions, I’d like to think I made a positive impact.

I automated the monthly reporting, identified a six-figure savings, and found overlooked deductions on this year’s corporate tax return.

Not to mention, I planned all the office birthday parties.

Rosa in marketing is turning sixty next month.

Who will be there to make sure she gets more than the standard sheet cake and birthday card? Probably no one, that’s who.

I really wish I hadn’t spilled my protein shake, because I’m now starving.

Spotting a vending machine, I sandwich my phone between my ear and my shoulder. “I’ll call you later, okay?” I say to Tessa.

“Of course. I think we need to put a wine-and-wedge on the calendar.”

“Yes, please.”

Wine-and-wedge Wednesdays started after college, when we entered the working world and quickly realized how chaotic and exhausting adulthood could be.

One particularly brutal week, after we’d both survived another miserable round of meetings, deadlines, and bad dates, we met up for happy hour at a cozy little bar downtown.

The kind of place with dim lighting, an extensive wine list, and the perfect ambiance for unwinding.

Tessa ordered us both glasses of the cheapest chardonnay they had, along with a wedge salad.

The salads were massive, topped with blue cheese, crunchy bacon bits, and that perfect creamy dressing.

We indulged in wine and girl talk, and somehow soon, we were laughing.

Not because anything was funny, but because it was enough to remind us that life wasn’t all bad.

Now, it’s like a sacred tradition for us. It sounds simple, but it makes everything seem a little less overwhelming.

“Bye, babe. Chin up,” she says.

I make an incomprehensible sound.

A small group of commuters carrying laptop bags shuffle past me on my way to the vending machine. They’re in a hurry to get where they’re going and seem oblivious to my inner turmoil.

I stop in front of the vending machine, torn between the hot Cheetos and the sensible protein bar. I swipe my card and punch in the code for the Cheetos. If there was ever a time for comfort food, it’s this one.

The machine makes a whirring sound, but my snack stays put.

Rude!

I swipe my card again and watch, again, as the vending machine takes my two dollars but doesn’t give me my snack. I repeat this process twice more before pounding my fist against the glass. “Come on, you bastard!”

A man dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe notices the commotion and pauses. “Everything okay?”

“No, everything is not okay. Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

If I were in a better frame of mind, I’d notice that the guy is very cute and very tall and has really nice eyelashes.

“Do you need any help?” he offers, watching me with a curious expression.

Turning sharply, I glare at him. “Help? No, I don’t need help—I need this stupid machine to work! This is the fourth time it’s eaten my money!”

He holds up his hands, clearly out of his element. “I’m sure it’s just a glitch. Maybe you can try to get a refund or something.”

“I don’t need a refund,” I snap angrily. “I need a snack! And I don’t need some guy in a suit telling me how to fix my problems.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches as he appraises me. “I’m just trying to be helpful. I didn’t mean to—”

I cut him off. “Just forget it. I don’t want your help. I just want one thing to go right for me today. Is that really too much to ask?”

Suit guy must realize my question is rhetorical, because he wisely stays quiet. The way he looks at me gives me a weird, wavy feeling in my stomach—which I promptly ignore.

The last thing I expected on my bingo card today was an annoying finance bro on his way to his corner office to witness my public meltdown on a city sidewalk.

Whatever. I can eat my feelings later.

Abandoning the vending machine, I turn to retrieve my box from the bench where I left it, only to realize it’s no longer there.

“Are you kidding me?!” I shout at the universe. “Seriously?” Gesturing like a lunatic at the bench and then toward the sky, I notice that suit guy is now scurrying away quickly, shaking his head in disbelief.

That box didn’t contain anything of real value—just my potted cactus, a few framed photos, various notebooks, and a cardigan from Anthropologie that I loved.

I can’t say I’m even surprised. I’ve always been the poster child for cosmic misfortune.

Case in point—I was bitten by a sloth on the corporate retreat to Costa Rica last year.

I once took the wrong suitcase from the airport—it was full of men’s clothing.

And I accidentally sent the $950 I owed for my portion of the rent to the wrong Venmo—that was more than an annoying blunder.

It’s not like I have an extra grand lying around.

Thankfully my roommate was good to cover me while I spent the next few months scrounging.

Basically, if things can go wrong, they will. It’s just how my life goes.

“Stop pouting and eat your wedge.” Tessa takes a sip from her glass of chardonnay.

I dutifully shovel another bite of salad into my mouth. “Happy?” I say around a mouthful of blue cheese.

“Frankie.” She gives me a stern look. “You are going to be fine.”

Maybe. Eventually. But it’s only been two days. While I’m not typically one to wallow, aren’t I allowed even a brief pity party? A short layover on the quarter-life-crisis express . . .

I stab a grape tomato with my fork. “I need a job. And a vacation. And to lose ten pounds.” I need my roots done, too, if I’m being honest.

“You need a boyfriend,” she says, smiling.

“Not,” I grumble.

We’ve been through this. Tessa was constantly trying to set me up with her coworker’s son, or her eyelash girl’s brother. Basically, if he had a functioning penis, Tessa wanted me to ride it.

I giggle to myself. Okay, that’s not exactly true—but she does seem to be rather obsessed with the state of my love life.

Who am I kidding? I don’t have a “love life,” and I’m perfectly okay with that.

I haven’t dated at all in the past two years.

After several bad breakups, I put myself on a sabbatical.

Nowadays I’m happy to have great friends, a cute apartment, and a career that I love.

Except, my brain reminds me, I no longer have one of those.

“I’m serious, babe. You’re going to find a great job, but I really think it could lift your spirits to have a little fun in the meantime and end this self-imposed relationship detox.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Tessa has dubbed me “boy sober.” As someone who’s experimented with dry January and sober October, I understood the assignment. A brief period in which I would abstain from dating. I would emerge at a later time more in control and able to make better choices—at least in theory.

I smile, remembering the guy who witnessed my public meltdown. “There was the cute guy in a suit that I possibly scarred for life yesterday.”

“A guy in a suit? That’d be a first for you . . .”

I roll my eyes and order a second glass of wine. “I could date a guy in a suit.”

Tessa laughs. “Are you for real? Your normal type is red flags. Tattoos. Bad boys. Ex-cons.”

“Not true.” I roll my eyes.

“Frankie!”

“Okay,” I say, relenting. “So Tanner had an arrest warrant, which he said was probably just a technicality.”

She stares at me. “And Jesse had full sleeves, tattoos on his neck, and zero goals.”

Tessa has a mishmash of colorful tattoos adorning her right arm, so why would she care about a couple (dozen) tattoos? A purple hummingbird was her latest addition. Her personality is basically like Halloween—playful, spunky, and a little weird.

“And Brendon . . .” she continues, “don’t get me started on Brendon. Don’t even mention his name.”

“See.” I grin sheepishly. “That’s exactly why I’m on sabbatical.”

If my life were a book, it would be titled Frankie’s Bad Taste in Men. Chapter 1 would be “Red Flags Are Just Decorative Banners, Right?” Chapter 2 could be “Swipe Right for Chaos.”

The bartender delivers our wine and removes the two empty glasses.

And I pray for a topic change, since the last thing I want to talk about is my spotty dating history.

Because she’s right—I wouldn’t know how to pick out a decent boyfriend if my life depended on it.

It’s all the more reason to stay single.

Tessa turns to me. “Anyways, I can always ask around at my work—see if they need anyone in the office. It’s a long shot, but maybe?”

“Sure, that’d be great,” I say half heartedly.

She’s the head of events for an art gallery.

They only have a small handful of office employees.

Long shot indeed. But at least I have a friend like Tessa in my corner.

Ever since my mom died, I’ve depended on her even more.

It’s tough feeling so alone in this world.

I think losing my job must have brought my feelings of inadequacy even more up to the surface.

When I get home that night, I do as Tessa instructed and fix up my résumé. After emailing it over to her, I spend two hours applying for jobs before I collapse into bed with a slight headache from the two glasses of wine we had at dinner.

In the morning, I wake to a single email in my inbox. An invite for a job interview the very next day for an accounting position. My prospects are looking up already.