Page 20 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

"It's... adequate." I find myself stopping too, against my better judgment.

She rolls her eyes. "Wow. Let me guess – you prefer the view of concrete and steel?"

"Steel and concrete serve a purpose." But I can't take my eyes off the way the rising sun catches in her hair, turning the edges to fire.

"Everything serves a purpose, Mr. Troy." She stretches her arms above her head, and I definitely don't notice how her tank top rides up. "Even small towns with their messy, organic, human way of life."

I snort. "Is this the part where you tell me about the magic of small-town living?"

"Would you listen if I did?"

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.

The waves crash behind us, and the breeze carries the scent of her shampoo – something tropical that shouldn't work but somehow does.

Like her.

"Probably not," I say finally, but it comes out softer than I intended.

She takes a step closer, and my heart rate picks up in a way that has nothing to do with running. "You know what your problem is, Mr. Tr…? Oh for goodness sake, I’m just going call you Troy.”

The way she says my name shouldn't affect me like this. "I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"You're so busy looking for purpose and profit that you miss the point entirely." She gestures at the sunrise, her face lit up with something that looks dangerously like passion. "Not everything needs to be useful. Sometimes, beautiful is enough."

I want to argue. I want to tell her she's wrong, that everything needs a purpose, a plan, a profit margin.

Instead, I find myself watching the way her lips curve when she smiles, the tiny freckles across her nose that I never noticed before.

"I should go," she says suddenly, taking a step back. "I have a lot to do today

"Running a food truck is hardly-"

"Save it." But she's still smiling, and it does weird things to my chest. "See you around, Wall Street. Try not to get sand in your designer sneakers."

I watch her jog away, trying to ignore how my eyes track the sway of her ponytail, the rhythm of her steps.

The sun is fully up now, painting the whole beach in shades of gold and pink that would probably look great in a marketing brochure for the resort we're planning.

The resort that would put her out of business.

Something twists in my stomach that feels suspiciously like guilt. I push it down and turn back toward the inn. I need a shower, coffee, and to remember why I'm really here.

But as I walk away, I can still smell tropical shampoo on the ocean breeze, and my carefully ordered world feels just a little bit messier than before.

Damn this town. Damn this sunrise.

And damn Skye Martinez for making me notice both.

That's the only explanation for why I'm sitting in Seaside Cove's tiny excuse for a library instead of working on acquisition reports hours later.

The librarian, Mrs. Tamara, keeps shooting me suspicious looks over her cat shaped eyeglasses.

She’s probably wondering why a man in a three-thousand-dollar suit is digging through dusty town records.

I loosen my tie. "These records are public, correct?"

"Oh, indeed." She shuffles over, and before I can stop her, she's pulling out more ancient-looking albums. "But if you'reinterested in our history, I've got better stories than these old papers."

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