Page 41 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

As I crawl into the inn’s bed that night, my phone buzzes.

It's a text from Troy. My finger hovers over the delete button, but something stops me. Instead, I turn off my phone without reading it.

Whatever Troy has to say, it can wait. Right now, I need to focus on what really matters: saving my home and picking up the pieces of my bruised heart.

Tomorrow's another day. And Skye Martinez doesn't go down without a fight.

Chapter eleven

TROY

The sunrise over Seaside Cove usually brings a burst of color that would make any of our luxury hotel marketing photos look amateur.

Today, it's just a reminder that I haven't slept. I've been walking this beach since 3 AM, my Italian leather shoes ruined by sand and salt water, my suit jacket abandoned hours ago in my room.

I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.

My phone shows seventeen drafted messages to Skye.

I've deleted every single one. What could I possibly say?

Sorry I infiltrated your town under false pretenses? Sorry I made you trust me before revealing I'm the CEO of the company you're fighting so hard against?

The memory of her face when I told her the truth haunts me.

I've seen that expression before – on small business owners when we've bought them out, on employees during mass layoffs.

But never has it cut this deep. The way her eyes changed, like she was looking at a stranger. Like every moment we'd shared, every laugh, every touch, had been a lie.

A seagull lands nearby, eyeing me with what feels like judgment. "Yeah, I know," I mutter, running a hand through my disheveled hair. "I screwed up, it’s obvious but thank you for reminding me."

My phone buzzes. For a split second, my heart leaps, but it's just a text from Drew.

Everything okay? Meg said she saw you walking on the beach at dawn. That's not very CEO of you.

I almost laugh at my brother's attempt at humor. Drew, who chose love over corporate ambition years ago. Drew, who everyone thought was crazy for staying in this small town. Maybe he was the smart one all along.

The waves crash against the shore, and I find myself walking toward the pier where Skye's food truck usually parks.

It's empty now, of course. She wouldn't be here this early. Or maybe she's avoiding me completely. The thought makes my chest tight.

Don’t ever contact me again, that’s what she said.

I climb the steps to the pier, my shoes squeaking with salt water and sand. The morning fishermen are starting to arrive, casting suspicious glances my way.

I must look like a madman – the great Troy Bellamy, disheveled and haunted, pacing like a guilty man.

Which is exactly what I am.

My phone buzzes again. This time it's Mona:Board meeting at 10. Need your updates on the Seaside acquisition.

I grip the pier railing, the weathered wood rough under my palms. Below, the water churns and swirls, much like my thoughts.

The "Seaside acquisition" – such a sterile term for what we're really doing. For what I am supposed to do.

A familiar laugh carries on the wind, and I turn so fast I nearly lose my balance.

But it's not Skye – just a young couple sharing coffee on a nearby bench. They're huddled close, sharing quiet words and soft smiles, reminding me of yesterday morning when Skye and I...

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