Page 14 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

"Your world, maybe." She turns away, and I have to stop myself from reaching for her. "But not mine."

I watch her walk back to her truck, ignoring the way my hands want to pull off that bandana and see those curls go wild and free again. I’m unsuccessfully trying to forget how her eyes sparked when she got in my face.

"Back to work," I mutter, pulling up my notes again. Property lines. Development potential. Things that make sense.

Unlike the way my heart is racing from a three-minute conversation about nothing.

I spend the rest of the morning mapping out acquisition targets, deliberately avoiding the food truck lot.

I have a job to do. A plan to execute. And no number of wild curls or flashing eyes is going to distract me from it.

Even if I can still smell vanilla on the sea breeze.

Even if my hands are still shaky as I type up my notes.

Even if some traitorous part of me is already wondering when I'll run into her again.

This is business. Just business.

So why does it feel like I'm trying so hard to convince myself?

***

Hours later, back in the inn and in my room, I check my phone for the fifth time in as many minutes.

Drew's text is cryptic:

Meet me in the diner.

We need to talk.

Perfect.

Another thing to deal with when all I want is to review acquisition reports in peace.

I grab my jacket, wondering what my brother could possibly want at this hour.

Knowing Drew, he's probably figured out why I'm really here.

The moment I step into the hallway, the universe decides to play another cruel joke.

Because there she is again, the food truck warrior herself. And she's fumbling with her key card directly across from my door.

I pause to really look at her without her seeing me.

She's swapped her work clothes for yoga pants and an oversized sweater that's slipping off one shoulder. Her luscious curls are piled on top of her head.

She's a sight.

"You have got to be kidding me," I mutter, but loud enough to catch her attention.

She whirls around, nearly dropping her key card. Her eyes land on me and they narrow. "Oh, wonderful. Are you stalking me now, Mr. Troy?"

I scoff.

"Hardly, Miss Skye. But I must say, your choice of accommodation is certainly upscale for someone so adamantly anti-corporation." I lean against my doorframe, crossing my arms. “Should you not be living in a cottage or something?”

She rolls her eyes, jabbing her key card at the reader again. "Right, because clearly only corporate suits are allowed to appreciate historic architecture and..."The door stays stubbornly locked."...decent water pressure. I have a reason for being here and it’s none of your business so don’t even ask.”

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