Page 1 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

Chapter one

TROY

My private jet shudders violently, and my stomach does a sickening flip. I white-knuckle the armrests, willing the turbulence to stop. I'm Troy Bellamy, for Pete’s sake. I run a multi-billion-dollar hotel empire. I don't have time for this nonsense.

"Mr. Bellamy, we need to make an emergency landing," the pilot's voice crackles over the intercom. "Please remain seated." And before he closes the circuit, I hear him say to the co-pilot: “Thank heavens they didn’t totally dismantle this old strip. Shops and stands may have built up around its perimeter, but the main section is still clear enough for us to land.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

I close my eyes, fighting the urge to snap at someone, anyone. This Seaside Cove trip was supposed to be quick and discreet. Now it’s turning into a circus.

The landing is rough, each bump feeling like a personal insult. When we finally screech to a halt, I'm already unbuckling, eagerto escape this metal deathtrap. I need solid ground under my feet, and I need it now.

As I step out of the plane, the world tilts. My head is pounding, and the bright sunlight feels like needles in my eyes. I squint, trying to get my bearings. Where in blue blazes are we? This can't be the Seaside Cove airstrip; it's hardly more than a piece of asphalt.

I take a few unsteady steps, my usually confident stride reduced to an awkward stumble. "Get it together, Troy," I mutter to myself. The last thing I need is to look weak in front of... well, whoever might be watching in this backwater town.

My Ferragamo loafers sink slightly into the sun-softened tarmac. Great. These shoes cost more than what most people here earn in a month. I grimace, already missing the smooth marble floors of my city office.

The salty breeze whips around me, further messing up my usually impeccable hair. I run a hand through it in frustration, then immediately regret it. Now my hand probably smells like hair product. This day just couldn't get any …

And that's when I see it. A garishly painted food truck parked near the edge of the landing strip. Who allowed this eyesore here?

I narrow my eyes, my disorientation rapidly giving way to annoyance. This is exactly the kind of small-town nonsense I'm here to fix.

I stride towards the truck, my momentum building with each step. I'm going to give whoever's responsible for this a piece of my mind.

But the world is still off-kilter, and my usual grace has abandoned me. My foot catches on an uneven patch of ground, and suddenly I'm pitching forward, arms windmilling. Dignity vanishes as I struggle against a most ungraceful tumble.

I collide with something solid – the front of the food truck, I realize with dawning horror. There's a loud clang, followed by a splash, and then...

"What the heck?"

It's a woman's voice, equal parts shock and fury. I blink, trying to clear my vision, and that's when I realize I'm covered in... something. Something warm and sticky and smelling of spices I can't even name.

I look up, ready to unleash my considerable vocabulary of curse words, and that's when I see her.

Her intense blazing eyes and mop of wild dark curls framing a heart-shaped face catch me off guard. For a moment – just a moment – I forget to be angry.

She's beautiful. Infuriatingly, incomprehensibly beautiful.

But then reality crashes back in. I'm Troy Bellamy, and I'm covered in food truck slop, staring at a woman who obviously has no idea who she's dealing with.

"Do you have any idea what you've just done?" I snarl, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Her eyes narrow, and I see a flash of something – recognition, maybe? – before it's replaced by pure, unadulterated anger.

"Me? You're the one who attacked my truck, you corporate clown!"

Who does this woman think she is?Drawing myself up to my full height, I do my best to ignore the sauce dripping down my collar.

This, I decide,means war.

“What did you just call me?" Clenched teeth. Forced words. A custom shirt. Seeping sauce. Frustration mounts as I try to ignore the spreading stain.

Or how good she smells – like vanilla and sea salt and something else I can't exactly place.

She plants her hands on her hips, and I notice how her eyes flash when she's angry. "You heard me. And you're wearing half of today's special, by the way.” She gives me a sickly-sweet smile, pointing at my shirt. “Thai fusion curry. Hope it wasn't too spicy for your delicate corporate sensibilities. Luckily it was cooling on the countertop, so at least you aren’t burned."

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