Page 11 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

I frown at the memory even as my lips twitch.

Just a little.

Drew guilted me into spending time with them.

"You're an uncle now, Troy. Act like one." That’s what he told me as he dragged me to the family’s well-established “barbecue weekend.”

I drag myself out of bed, trying to shake off memories of the past two days.

Drew and Meg are so sickeningly in love it almost hurt to watch.

Little Elliot toddling, no actually running now, from one of us to the other with his "weerly wibble twuck" in hand to display.

The baby – my niece – with her tiny fingers and that new-baby smell.

She is so beautiful, so adorable.

She makes me want a lot of things I’m not sure I should be wanting now.

I also can’t help but remember the way Drew looks at them, like they are his whole world.

Of course. Because they are.

My brother, the CEO, is gone.

He's been replaced by a small town billionaire who thoroughly loves his wife and children.

"Going soft, Bellamy," I had muttered to him as he forced me to act like a chicken to make his son laugh.

And as I head for the shower, I realize that Drew’s life is perfect.

I want that. Do I?

The water pressure is not the best, but at least it's hot. I let it pound against my shoulders, trying to wash away the weird feeling in my chest.

That hollow ache showed up somewhere between watching Drew make breakfast for Meg and having me hold the baby while he and Meg took turns swinging Elliott.

I didn't want to enjoy any of it.

But seeing my workaholic brother so... content? It was something else.

The Drew I knew in New York lived on coffee and corporate takeovers.

This Drew makes pancakes and sings lullabies. And he has the biggest smile on his face.

The shower starts running cold – typical small-town infrastructure. So, I get out and wrap a towel around my waist.

My reflection in the steamy mirror looks tired.

Must be all that fresh air and family time.

I pick out my armor for the day: crisp white shirt, charcoal suit, Italian leather shoes.

The familiar routine of dressing grounds me.

This is who I am. Troy Bellamy, CEO, not Troy Bellamy, a doting uncle who's going to let sentiment get in the way of business.

Still, as I knot my tie, I can't help remembering how it felt when baby Willow fell asleep on my chest.

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