Page 21 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

Great. Just what I need – another local eager to talk my ear off.

But then she drops a photo album in front of me, and something catches my eye.

The inn. But not like it is now. The photo's black and white, showing damage from what looks like a massive storm.

"Hurricane of '85," Mrs. Tamara says, like she's reading my mind. "Nearly wiped out the whole town. That's my father there, and the Martinez family – they're Skye's grandparents, actually."

I sit up straighter at the mention of Skye. "Her grandparents?"

"Mhmm. Their restaurant fed the whole town while we rebuilt. Didn't charge a dime." She taps another photo. "And look here – the inn. After the hurricane, the big hotel chains swooped in, tried to buy up all the damaged properties. Offered good money too."

My throat feels tight. “Smart business move."

She makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-snort. "That's what they said. But George Martinez – Skye's grandfather – he organized everyone. Got them to hold out. 'This town's not for sale,' he'd say. 'Some things are worth more than money.'"

I flip through more photos. The town rebuilding. People working together.

Community meetings in what looks like the same hall where they're now planning to fight off... Well, people like me.

"The big companies said we'd fail without them." Mrs. Tamara’s voice has an edge now. "But look around, Mr. Troy. We're still here. And those companies? They built their fancy resorts somewhere else. Probably all merged and bankrupted by now."

I think of the merger papers sitting in my hotel room. The projected profits. The board's expectations.

"Times are different now," I say, but it sounds weak even to me.

"Are they?" She picks up a more recent photo. It's Skye, younger, helping her grandfather at what must be the original version of her food truck.

She's laughing at something off-camera, flour on her cheek, looking so... happy.

Free.

Something twists in my chest.

My phone buzzes – probably Lillian or Mona checking on my progress.

I ignore it.

"Why are you really here, Mr. Troy?" Mrs. Tamara asks quietly.

I close the album maybe a bit too quickly. "Just doing market research."

"Mm." She gives me a look that's too knowing for comfort. "You know, sometimes the best business decision isn't the obvious one."

"I didn't come here for advice," I say, standing up.

"No?" She starts gathering the albums. "Then why did you come?"

I straighten my tie, trying to find my usual certainty. "Like I said. Research."

"Well," she smiles, "I hope you found what you were looking for."

I'm halfway to the door when her voice stops me again.

"Mr. Troy? That young woman in the photo? The one with flour on her face?" She waits until I look back. "She's still that same girl. This town... it lets people be who they really are. Even visitors who wear very expensive looking suits."

I escape into the street, loosening my tie again.

The sun is too bright, the air too fresh, everything too real. I pull out my phone, looking at the missed calls from my sisters.

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