Page 2 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

I wipe at my ruined shirt, probably making it worse. "Luckily, you say? Luckily? Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?" I grunt.

"Doyouhave any idea how much of my product you wasted?" She gestures at the mess around us. "That's a whole day's worth of prep down the drain!"

"A day's worth?" I scoff, even as something uncomfortable twists in my chest at her words. "What could that be worth? A hundred dollars? Two hundred?"

Reaching for my wallet, I’m eager to end this conversation. "Here. Let me give you the money and we can both forget this unfortunate incident."

Her face goes red. Actually red.

It shouldn't be attractive, but somehow it is.

Must be the fry messing with my brain.

“Keep your money," she snaps. "I don't need your charity, Mr..." she pauses, clearly fishing for a name.

"Troy," I supply without thinking.

She scoffs. "Well, Mr. Troy," she says my name like it's something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “Some of us actually work for a living. We don't just throw money at our problems and expect them to go away."

I shouldn't rise to the bait.

I'm better than this. I run a billion-dollar company, for crying out loud.

But something about this woman is really getting under my skin. "At least I have money to throw," I find myself shootingback. "Unlike some people who seem content running a glorified lunch wagon in the middle of nowhere."

"Glorified lunch …" She cuts herself off, taking a deep breath. "You know what? I don't have time for this. I have actual work to do, and I refuse to be like you, standing around in an overpriced suit making snap judgments about things you don't understand. I focus on meaningful work."

She turns away, and I catch myself staring at the way the sun catches her dark curls.

They're as wild as she is, and I have a sudden, insane urge to reach out and touch them.

I shake my head, annoyed with myself.

"For your information," I call after her, "I understand plenty. For example, small businesses like yours are exactly what's wrong with places like this. No vision. No ambition. Just ... mediocrity masquerading as charm."

She whirls back around so fast I almost take a step back.

Almost.

This female’s definitely not some scaredy cat.

"Mediocrity? Wrong with places like this?" Her voice is quiet now, which is somehow worse than the yelling. "Let me tell you something about'places like this,'Mr. Big Shot. We might not have your fancy suits or your sleek high-rise towers, but we have some things you probably wouldn't recognize if it grabbed you by your designer tie – community. heart. soul. connection."

She steps closer, and I catch that vanilla scent again. It's distracting.

She's distracting.

“But you wouldn't understand that, would you? Because you're just another entitled jerk who thinks money is the answer to everything."

I open my mouth to respond, but for once in my life, words fail me.

Because she's close enough now that I can see the golden flecks in her brown eyes, and count the freckles scattered across her nose, and...

What the heck is wrong with me?

"I need to go," I mutter, stepping back. Away from her scent, her eyes, her everything. "Send the bill for your... whatever this was... to the Seaside Inn. Room number..." I realize I don't have one yet. "Whatever room I end up in."

"Don't bother," she calls after me as I turn to leave. "I wouldn't want to offend your delicate sensibilities with my small-town mediocrity again!"

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