Page 42 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

"Stop torturing yourself," I mutter, pushing away from the railing. But as I turn to leave, I catch sight of something that makes me freeze.

Through the early morning mist, I can see the entire town sprawled before me. The charming storefronts opening for the day. The inn's weathered facade glowing in the morning light.

The community garden where Skye taught me about her grandmother's herb combinations.

This isn't just real estate. This isn't just another acquisition.

I pull out my phone, scroll past the drafted messages to Skye, and find Drew’s number, but I’m not sure what to do yet.

If I can't fix what I've broken with Skye, I can at least try to save what she loves.

I receive yet another text from Meg.

***

Meg and Drew’s house sits on Ocean View Drive, a sprawling cape cod that Drew had renovated while they were on their honeymoon.

It feels wrong coming here, especially now, but Meg's text was clear:We need to talk. Coffee's ready.

I park my Audi next to Meg's more modest SUV and check my reflection in the rearview mirror again.

I don’t look any different from before. I still look exactly like what I am – a man who hasn't slept and doesn't know how to fix what he's broken. At least I changed into fresh clothes, though wearing casual wear still feels like admitting defeat.

Meg opens the door before I can knock.

My sister-in-law stands there, baby Willow propped on her hip, giving me that knowing look that makes me understand why Drew fell for her.

She has this way of seeing through people's facades, even ones as carefully constructed as mine.

"You look terrible," she says by way of greeting.

"Good morning to you too." I try for my boardroom smile, but it feels brittle.

I begin to step inside and suddenly I freeze. “What the heck is THAT!” Crossing the floor behind Meg is a giant green something. It looks prehistoric. Without thinking I back up against the door, making Meg double up in laughter. I’m literally in a defense posture, holding my arms out in a Ninja pose while Meg laughs at me.

Once she’s able to control herself enough to speak she chokes out: “Meet Lizaard, my iguana friend.”

“It’s got a name? Really? What’s it doing in here? Does it bite? Is it poisonous?”

Again, Meg can barely talk. “Take a breath, Troy. Lizaard is a she, not an it. She’s my pet and comes and goes as she pleases. Her tank is her safety spot, but today she seems to want to go out back to the sand pit that Drew made for her. Wanna hold her?”

“Good gravy, NO! Lizard can go away, far away, Okay?”

“Well,” Meg continues, “her name is Lizaard with two a’s, not Lizard. And secondly, please don’t hurt her feelings, okay? She’s very sensitive. Are you sure you don’t want to hold her?”

With nervous eyes I take a wide berth around the creature, saying: “nice creature, nice creature …”

Once I seeLizaard with two a’sheading to the back door, I drop my defense stance. “Meg, you said that you two wanted to talk with me?”

"Drew's at the inn, actually. I told him that you and I needed sister-in-law time." She steps aside to let me pass, and the scent of coffee and fresh bread hits me. "Though technically, I suppose it's sister-in-law and crying CEO time."

"I don't cry," I say automatically, following her into the kitchen. "And I'm fine."

"Sure." Meg settles Willow into her rocking cradle, fastens her safety harness and turns to the coffee maker. "That's why you were doing your best Victorian-novel-hero impression on the beach at dawn."

The kitchen is warm and lived-in, nothing like my sterile penthouse in New York.

Family photos cover the fridge – Drew and Meg's wedding, Elliott and Willow baby pictures, and casual snapshots of town events. There's even one of me from last Christmas, actually smiling.

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