Page 61 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

What I want.

The phrase hangs between us, loaded with implication.

What do I want?

Chapter sixteen

SKYE

I'm absolutely terrible at waiting.

My chef's knife hits the cutting board with surgical precision, each chop punctuating my nervous energy.

My wrist flicks as I hack through yet another onion, the rhythm like a drumbeat, my only defense against the mess of nerves tangling in my stomach.

Slice. Dice. Mince. It's like I'm conducting a culinary symphony of anxiety, and these poor vegetables are my unwitting orchestra.

“You’re gonna obliterate those onions if you keep going like that,” Zoey calls out from the food truck window, a smirk on her face as she watches me massacre my produce.

I pause, looking down at the massacre of tear-inducing produce.

She's not wrong.

These poor things look like they just barely survived a natural disaster, and I’m the hurricane.

"Occupational hazard of overthinking," I mutter, wiping my hands on my apron, the soft cotton worn from countless shifts in this truck. This space is more than just a kitchen on wheels; it’s my sanctuary, my armor, the one place I can always count on to be mine.

My phone sits on the counter like a ticking time bomb.

Silent.

Waiting. Mocking me.

But not today. Because my phone — sitting right there on the counter, silent and mocking — threatens to take all of this away from me. One call from Troy and everything could change. For me. For my truck. For the whole damn town of Seaside Cove.

Who would’ve thought some hotshot CEO, looking all broody and corporate, would just drop into my life like an earthquake? And who would’ve thought I’d end up caring so much about what he has to say?

My fingers itch to reach for the phone. Just one quick check. Nothing yet.

Troy. His name alone sends a shiver down my spine—a mix of frustration and something dangerously close to excitement. I remember our first meeting like it was yesterday.

Him, all grumpy and powerful, stumbling out of that private jet disaster, looking more like a disgruntled businessman than a savior.

Me, throwing myself in front of my truck, ready to protect it from some billionaire who probably thought of food trucks as a roadside inconvenience.

And now? Now, here I am waiting for his call like it’s some kind of lifeline.

Not yet. Don't get your hopes up, Skye.

I've learned that lesson the hard way. Corporate types like Troy aren't known for keeping promises. They're knownfor spreadsheets, profit margins, and destroying small-town dreams.

But this Troy... he's different. Complicated.

Infuriating. This man is infuriating, with his thousand-dollar suits and calculating gaze. But also… kind. And loyal. And the kind of person who keeps his promises, even if I’d never admit it out loud.

The onions are now basically onion dust.

"You're stress cooking again," Zoey singsongs.

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