Page 78 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

“It’s like the whole city is alive,” I say, squeezing his hand tighter, my eyes wide with awe.

Troy grins, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You’ve only seen a fraction of it. Wait until you see the view from the penthouse.”

We step into the sleek lobby of his building, the polished marble floor cool beneath my sandals. The lobby is a study in modern luxury—gleaming glass, soft lighting, and lush plants. I catch a glimpse of myself in the elevator doors as they close, and I can’t help but wonder if I belong here.

“Do I look like I belong in a place like this?” I ask, a hint of self-doubt creeping in.

Troy leans down, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers, “You look like you own the place.”

I feel my cheeks flush, my heart skipping a beat as the elevator rises, whisking us toward the penthouse. When the doors open, I gasp. The penthouse is a work of art—floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Manhattan skyline like a living painting. The city sprawls before us, glittering with lights even in the daylight.

“Okay, Mr. Billionaire,” I tease, spinning around to take it all in. “You weren’t kidding about the view.”

Troy shrugs nonchalantly, slipping his hands into his pockets. “It’s nice, but it’s missing something.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

He steps closer, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me into his embrace. “You.”

I roll my eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at my lips. “Smooth. Very smooth.”

“I try,” he says, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that sends a shiver down my spine. When we finally pull apart, I swat his chest playfully.

“Enough of that. Show me what else this city has to offer,” I say, my voice teasing.

Troy’s eyes gleam with mischief. “Oh, I plan to.”

The day passes in a blur of adventure. We visit a rooftop restaurant overlooking Central Park, where I devour a slice of pizza that’s as perfect as it is unexpected. The view is breathtaking, but I can’t resist teasing him.

“It’s good,” I admit between bites, “but it’s no clam chowder in a bread bowl.”

Troy laughs, sipping his wine. “You’re biased. Besides, you’re comparing apples to oranges.”

“Or pizza to chowder,” I quip, grinning at him.

After dinner, we wander through Times Square, the neon lights casting a kaleidoscope of colors across our faces. I stop to take a selfie with Troy, who’s wearing a foam Statue of Liberty crown I bought from a street vendor.

“This is ridiculous,” he laughs, adjusting the crown on his head.

“It’s adorable,” I counter, snapping another photo. “You’re officially a tourist now.”

“I think you’re rubbing off on me,” he says, pulling me close.

The next morning, Troy keeps his promise of a slower day. We take a leisurely stroll through Central Park, hand in hand, enjoying the crisp air and the vibrant colors of the autumn leaves. We stop to watch a street musician playing a soulful tune on his guitar, and I can’t help but smile at the scene. The city feels a little less intimidating when you take the time to really look at it.

“I insist on rowing a boat on the lake,” I declare suddenly, tugging at his arm.

Troy raises an eyebrow, but he follows me to the boathouse. I watch as he fumbles with the oars, trying to get the boat moving in a straight line. I can’t help but laugh as he struggles.

“You’re supposed to be good at everything,” I tease, my voice light and playful.

“I’m a fast learner,” he says with a grin, finally finding his rhythm. “Besides, you seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I am,” I admit, leaning back in the boat and closing my eyes to soak up the sunshine. “This city isn’t so intimidating when you slow down.”

After the park, we make our way to a small art gallery tucked away in the West Village. The gallery is cozy, with soft lighting and walls lined with paintings that range from abstract to breathtakingly beautiful. I stop in front of a painting of a windswept beach, the colors so vivid they almost seem to move. I reach out to touch it, my fingers brushing the canvas.

“It reminds me of home,” I say softly, my voice almost a whisper.

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