Page 45 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

My phone shows no messages from her, not that I expected any. But now, at least, I have a plan.

I type out a new message:Mona and Lillian are coming this weekend. I know you're angry, and you have every right to be. But I'm asking for one chance to show you – to show everyone – that there's a better way. No hidden agendas this time.

My finger hovers over the send button. Through the window, I can hear the distant sounds of the town coming alive – shopkeepers calling greetings, the coffee shop's morning rush,children laughing on their way to school. All the little pieces that make this place what it is. What I almost helped destroy.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself.

Then I do something I haven't done since arriving in Seaside Cove: I pull up my calendar and clear it completely. No calls. No meetings. No acquisitions.

Just one impossible task: proving to my siblings, this town, and most importantly, to Skye, that Troy Bellamy – corporate shark, notorious dealmaker, and self-proclaimed enemy of small-town inefficiency – can change.

The irony isn't lost on me that I'm approaching winning back Skye's trust like a business deal. But it's the only way I know how.

At least for now.

My phone buzzes. For a moment, my heart stops, thinking it might be Skye. Instead, it's Drew:Meg told me about your morning chat. About time, brother. Need help with damage control?

I smile despite myself.Yes. And Drew? Thank you for being right about this place.

Took you long enough to admit it,comes his reply.

Standing at the window, I watch as the morning crowd gathers around Skye's food truck. Even from here, I can see her moving with practiced efficiency, her dark curls caught in the sea breeze. She's wearing that ridiculous apron with the dancing tacos that I secretly find adorable.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it's Skye.

This weekend. You get one chance to explain. After that, either leave us alone or help us. No middle ground.

It's more than I deserve, but less than I hoped for. Still, it's a start.

I begin making lists – accommodations for my sisters, local attractions they need to see, key community members they should meet. But my eyes keep drifting to the pier, to the vibrant food truck that somehow became the heart of my redemption story.

One chance. That's all I need.

I hope.

Chapter twelve

SKYE

Chop, dice, sauté, serve.

Repeat. No time to think about lying CEOs or betrayed trust or stupidly perfect kisses that apparently meant nothing.

The morning rush at my food truck is exactly what I need right now.

"Order up!" I slide the Korean-Mexican fusion tacos across my counter, probably with more force than necessary. The plate skids dangerously close to the edge before my regular customer, old Mr. Peterson, catches it.

"Everything okay there, Skye?" He peers at me over his wire-rimmed glasses.

"Peachy." I attack the next bell pepper with my knife. "Just peachy keen."

The morning crowd keeps coming, and I keep cooking. It's what I'm good at.

What I can trust.

Unlike certain billionaire hotel moguls who sweep into town pretending to be—nope.

Not going there. Focus on the food, Skye.

---