Page 13 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

This is what I'm good at. This is what makes sense. Numbers. Projections. Profit margins that would make our shareholders weep with joy.

"More coffee, Mr. Bellamy?"

I glance up at the elderly waitress – Martha? Mary? – and shake my head. I need to check out the property lines in person, so I thank her and ask her to bill my room.

She beams at me like I've made her day by speaking. That's another thing about small towns. Everyone acts like basic interaction is some kind of gift. "Beautiful day for a walk! The waterfront is lovely this time of year."

I manage what I hope passes for a polite smile and pack up my things. I don't need local color. I need cold, hard facts.

The morning sun is too bright as I step outside. Everything here is too bright, too clean, too... quaint.

It's like walking through a postcard. A postcard that's about to become prime commercial real estate, but still.

I walk around the waterfront, making notes on my phone. That decrepit fishing pier could be a high-end marina.

The row of shabby shops? Luxury boutiques.

The food truck lot – I purposely avoid that area– would make a perfect spot for an upscale restaurant.

"Taking in the local charm?"

I freeze.

That voice.

It's been three days, but I'd know it anywhere.

"Why, hello." I slowly turn, keeping my face neutral despite the way my pulse picks up.

She's wearing chef's whites today, her wild curls somewhat contained under a bandana.

It shouldn't look good. It does.

"Didn't expect to see you still hanging around." She crosses her arms.And I definitely don't notice how the morning sunlight catches the gold flecks in her eyes."Most corporate types can't wait to escape our little slice of mediocrity."

"Just doing my job." I tap my phone. "Someone has to evaluate the... economic potential here."

Her eyes narrow. "Evaluate?"

"Standard business practice." I turn back to my notes, ignoring how the sea breeze carries that vanilla scent to me. "Though I'm surprised you'd understand that, given your... business model."

"My business model?" Her voice gets that dangerous edge I remember from our first meeting. "You mean my successful food truck that actually contributes to this community? Unlike whatever corporate schemes you're plotting? What exactly are you here for, Mr. Troy?"

I shouldn't engage. I really shouldn't.

I ignore her jab and her last question. "Contribute? Is that what you call serving curry to tourists?"

"At least I create something." She steps closer, and now it's hard to focus on anything but how alive she looks when she's angry. "What do you create? Besides profit margins and hostile takeovers?"

"What I create is none of your business."

"Right. Of course. Your plans are only for people who wear suits and all they care about is money.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

She shakes her head, and a curl escapes her bandana. I hate that I notice. "You don't get it, do you? Not everything is about money."

"Everything IS about money." But the words sound hollow, even to me. "That's how the world works."

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