Page 5 of Falling for Mr. Grump, the Big City Billionaire

Starting now.

Chapter two

SKYE

Red. It’s red.

I'm seeing red, and it's not just the salsa splattered all over my beloved food truck.

That corporate jerk is long gone, probably sauntering off to ruin someone else's day. But the damage he's left behind has my blood boiling.

"Unbelievable," I mutter, running my hand along the dent in Bessie.

My poor truck looks like it went ten rounds with a bulldozer. And lost. Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. But still.

The salty breeze whips my curls into my face, and I angrily tuck them behind my ears.

Stupid wind. Stupid dent.

Stupid guy in his stupid expensive suit.

I grab a rag from inside the truck and start wiping away the spilled salsa. "It's always the fine-looking ones, isn't it?"I grumble to myself. "Handsome face, designer suit, and the personality of a Rottweiler. Typical."

The sun beats down on my back as I scrub, making me sweat. Great. Now I probably smell like a gym sock dipped in curry.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

A hopeful seagull lands nearby, eyeing the spilled food. "Oh no, you don't," I warn it. "This mess is all mine, buddy. Go fish."

As if it understands me, the bird lets out an indignant squawk before flying off. I roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Join the club. We're all having a bad day here."

I step back to survey the damage, hands on my hips.

The dent's not huge, but it's noticeable. And right in the middle of my mermaid mural. I spent weeks on that painting, perfecting every scale, every strand of her flowing hair.

Now she looks like she took an elbow to the ribs.

"Sorry, girl," I say, patting the mermaid's painted arm. "Guess we both got sucker-punched by Prince Not-So-Charming."

The distant sound of waves crashing against the shore usually calms me, but right now it's merely background noise to the rant playing in my head.

Who does that guy think he is, anyway? No doubt some big-city hotshot who thinks small towns like Seaside Cove are beneath him.

I bet he's the type who orders a plain chicken breast at a five-star restaurant. He’s the kind of guy who'd wear a three-piece suit to a beach bonfire. A man who's never had sand between his toes or saltwater in his hair.

"Well, buddy," I say to the absent jerk, wringing out my salsa-soaked rag, "welcome to Seaside Cove. Hope you enjoy your stay, 'cause it might just knock that massive chip off of your shoulder."

"Skye? Everything okay over there?"

I spin around to see Mrs. Delmar, my most loyal customer, peering at me with concern.

Shoot.I really need to stop talking to myself.

"Oh, you know," I say, forcing a smile. "Just adding some extra excitement to the morning menu. How about some salsa-marinated pavement to go with your fish tacos?"

Mrs. Delmar chuckles, shaking her head. "Only you could find humor in this, dear. Need any help cleaning up?"

I wave her off. "Nah, I've got it. Thanks, though. Your usual order coming right up!"

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