1. TROY

Chapter one

TROY

My private jet shudders violently, and my stomach does a sickening flip. I white-knuckle the armrests, willing the turbulence to stop. I'm Troy Bellamy, for Pete’s sake. I run a multi-billion-dollar hotel empire. I don't have time for this nonsense.

"Mr. Bellamy, we need to make an emergency landing," the pilot's voice crackles over the intercom. "Please remain seated." And before he closes the circuit, I hear him say to the co-pilot: “Thank heavens they didn’t totally dismantle this old strip. Shops and stands may have built up around its perimeter, but the main section is still clear enough for us to land.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

I close my eyes, fighting the urge to snap at someone, anyone. This Seaside Cove trip was supposed to be quick and discreet. Now it’s turning into a circus.

The landing is rough, each bump feeling like a personal insult. When we finally screech to a halt, I'm already unbuckling, eager to escape this metal deathtrap. I need solid ground under my feet, and I need it now.

As I step out of the plane, the world tilts. My head is pounding, and the bright sunlight feels like needles in my eyes. I squint, trying to get my bearings. Where in blue blazes are we? This can't be the Seaside Cove airstrip; it's hardly more than a piece of asphalt.

I take a few unsteady steps, my usually confident stride reduced to an awkward stumble. "Get it together, Troy," I mutter to myself. The last thing I need is to look weak in front of... well, whoever might be watching in this backwater town.

My Ferragamo loafers sink slightly into the sun-softened tarmac. Great. These shoes cost more than what most people here earn in a month. I grimace, already missing the smooth marble floors of my city office.

The salty breeze whips around me, further messing up my usually impeccable hair. I run a hand through it in frustration, then immediately regret it. Now my hand probably smells like hair product. This day just couldn't get any …

And that's when I see it. A garishly painted food truck parked near the edge of the landing strip. Who allowed this eyesore here?

I narrow my eyes, my disorientation rapidly giving way to annoyance. This is exactly the kind of small-town nonsense I'm here to fix.

I stride towards the truck, my momentum building with each step. I'm going to give whoever's responsible for this a piece of my mind.

But the world is still off-kilter, and my usual grace has abandoned me. My foot catches on an uneven patch of ground, and suddenly I'm pitching forward, arms windmilling. Dignity vanishes as I struggle against a most ungraceful tumble.

I collide with something solid – the front of the food truck, I realize with dawning horror. There's a loud clang, followed by a splash, and then...

"What the heck?"

It's a woman's voice, equal parts shock and fury. I blink, trying to clear my vision, and that's when I realize I'm covered in... something. Something warm and sticky and smelling of spices I can't even name.

I look up, ready to unleash my considerable vocabulary of curse words, and that's when I see her.

Her intense blazing eyes and mop of wild dark curls framing a heart-shaped face catch me off guard. For a moment – just a moment – I forget to be angry.

She's beautiful. Infuriatingly, incomprehensibly beautiful.

But then reality crashes back in. I'm Troy Bellamy, and I'm covered in food truck slop, staring at a woman who obviously has no idea who she's dealing with.

"Do you have any idea what you've just done?" I snarl, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Her eyes narrow, and I see a flash of something – recognition, maybe? – before it's replaced by pure, unadulterated anger.

"Me? You're the one who attacked my truck, you corporate clown!"

Who does this woman think she is? Drawing myself up to my full height, I do my best to ignore the sauce dripping down my collar.

This , I decide, means war.

“What did you just call me?" Clenched teeth. Forced words. A custom shirt. Seeping sauce. Frustration mounts as I try to ignore the spreading stain.

Or how good she smells – like vanilla and sea salt and something else I can't exactly place.

She plants her hands on her hips, and I notice how her eyes flash when she's angry. "You heard me. And you're wearing half of today's special, by the way.” She gives me a sickly-sweet smile, pointing at my shirt. “Thai fusion curry. Hope it wasn't too spicy for your delicate corporate sensibilities. Luckily it was cooling on the countertop, so at least you aren’t burned."

I wipe at my ruined shirt, probably making it worse. "Luckily, you say? Luckily? Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?" I grunt.

"Do you have any idea how much of my product you wasted?" She gestures at the mess around us. "That's a whole day's worth of prep down the drain!"

"A day's worth?" I scoff, even as something uncomfortable twists in my chest at her words. "What could that be worth? A hundred dollars? Two hundred?"

Reaching for my wallet, I’m eager to end this conversation. "Here. Let me give you the money and we can both forget this unfortunate incident."

Her face goes red. Actually red.

It shouldn't be attractive, but somehow it is.

Must be the fry messing with my brain.

“Keep your money," she snaps. "I don't need your charity, Mr..." she pauses, clearly fishing for a name.

"Troy," I supply without thinking.

She scoffs. "Well, Mr. Troy," she says my name like it's something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “Some of us actually work for a living. We don't just throw money at our problems and expect them to go away."

I shouldn't rise to the bait.

I'm better than this. I run a billion-dollar company, for crying out loud.

But something about this woman is really getting under my skin. "At least I have money to throw," I find myself shooting back. "Unlike some people who seem content running a glorified lunch wagon in the middle of nowhere."

"Glorified lunch …" She cuts herself off, taking a deep breath. "You know what? I don't have time for this. I have actual work to do, and I refuse to be like you, standing around in an overpriced suit making snap judgments about things you don't understand. I focus on meaningful work."

She turns away, and I catch myself staring at the way the sun catches her dark curls.

They're as wild as she is, and I have a sudden, insane urge to reach out and touch them.

I shake my head, annoyed with myself.

"For your information," I call after her, "I understand plenty. For example, small businesses like yours are exactly what's wrong with places like this. No vision. No ambition. Just ... mediocrity masquerading as charm."

She whirls back around so fast I almost take a step back.

Almost.

This female’s definitely not some scaredy cat.

"Mediocrity? Wrong with places like this?" Her voice is quiet now, which is somehow worse than the yelling. "Let me tell you something about 'places like this,' Mr. Big Shot. We might not have your fancy suits or your sleek high-rise towers, but we have some things you probably wouldn't recognize if it grabbed you by your designer tie – community. heart. soul. connection."

She steps closer, and I catch that vanilla scent again. It's distracting.

She's distracting.

“But you wouldn't understand that, would you? Because you're just another entitled jerk who thinks money is the answer to everything."

I open my mouth to respond, but for once in my life, words fail me.

Because she's close enough now that I can see the golden flecks in her brown eyes, and count the freckles scattered across her nose, and...

What the heck is wrong with me?

"I need to go," I mutter, stepping back. Away from her scent, her eyes, her everything. "Send the bill for your... whatever this was... to the Seaside Inn. Room number..." I realize I don't have one yet. "Whatever room I end up in."

"Don't bother," she calls after me as I turn to leave. "I wouldn't want to offend your delicate sensibilities with my small-town mediocrity again!"

I stride away, pretending I don't hear her.

Pretending I'm not hyperaware of her eyes on my back.

Pretending my skin isn't still tingling from where the curry soaked through my shirt.

I need a shower. A change of clothes.

And possibly a lobotomy to get those incredible golden-flecked eyes out of my head.

What a perfect horrible start to what's already promising to be a horrible day.

With a growl, I fish my phone out of my pocket, grimacing at the curry stains on my fingers.

Great .

At least the phone still works. I scroll to Drew's number, hesitating for a second before hitting the call button.

My brother picks up on the third ring.

"Troy? Weren't you supposed to land at …”

"Emergency landing," I cut him off. "I'm at some excuse for an airstrip, covered in Thai curry, and I need a ride."

There's a pause, then a laugh. "Covered in what now?"

"Don't." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Just... Can you come get me, please?"

"Be there in ten." He's still laughing. "Try not to get into any more trouble with the local food vendors before I arrive."

I hang up without bothering to reply.

How does he even know about... never mind.

Small towns.

Everyone probably knows everything about everyone else here. It's exactly why I hate places like this.

Drew shows up in an ancient Jeep that's seen better days.

My brother – successful city CEO turned small-town innkeeper – looks disgustingly happy.

He's wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt, and his usual slicked-back hair is messy.

The Drew I knew in New York wouldn't be caught dead looking like this.

Somehow, he looks good, like he’s in his element.

"Don't say a word," I warn as I climb in.

He grins. "About the curry? Or about how you managed to piss off the owner of the best food truck in town within five minutes of landing?"

"It's a food truck," I mutter. "How good could it possibly be?"

But my traitorous mind flashes to the spices I can still smell on my shirt, complex and interesting and...

No. Stop it.

"You'd be surprised," Drew says as we pull away. "I don’t know why you’ve decided to stay at the Inn. You know, you could stay at our house. Meg would love to see you."

"With a toddler and a newborn? No thanks. But, of course, congratulations again on the new baby."

I look out the window, watching the disgustingly quaint buildings roll by. "I don’t want to ruin your time with your family by butting in. Plus, Drew, you know I'm only here to …" I catch myself just in time.

Almost disclosed why I’m really here.

I doubt this Drew would ever agree to why I’m here.

"To what?" His voice is sharper now.

"To check some investment opportunities," I say smoothly. "Won't be here more than a few days."

Drew's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Right. Well, the inn's probably better for you anyway. Though you should know we're doing renovations on the east wing."

"As long as there's a room with a shower and clean sheets, I don't care." I check my phone, pretending to read emails. "The board's breathing down my neck about these investment opportunities."

"Troy..." Drew's voice has that warning tone I hate. "This town isn't just another business opportunity. You can’t go around causing trouble. The folks like the town as it is. WE like the town the way it is."

"Everything's a business opportunity." I force myself to sound bored rather than defensive. "That's how we built the empire Dad left us into something actually worth having, remember?”

"And that's why you're still single at almost forty?" The question hits harder than he intended. "Some things matter more than business, brother."

I think of him and Meg, how nauseatingly happy they are with their simple life and children. "That works for you," I say finally. "But I'm not built for... this."

I wave my hand at the pastel-painted shops and people actually stopping to chat on the sidewalks. "Small town charm makes me break out in hives."

"Sure, it does." Drew pulls up to the inn.

It’s big, it’s beautiful but not the majestic accommodation I’m used to.

"That's why Skye, the food truck vendor, looked like she wanted to cook you and fry your ass."

"I’m supposed to care about that? I’m literally covered in her curry!" But I can feel my ears getting hot.

"You should be more careful, Troy, and try not to gain more enemies than friends in this small town." He grins as I grab my bag from the back. "Room 204's open. Best view of the harbor."

I eye the renovated Victorian building, trying to ignore its obvious charm. "Thanks for the ride. Give my best to Meg and the kids."

"You could come tell her yourself."

"Maybe before I leave." We both know I probably won't. "I've got work to do."

Drew shakes his head. "You know, one of these days, someone's going to come along and make you realize there's more to life than spreadsheets and acquisitions."

I think of flashing brown eyes and wild curls.

Of the way my skin tingled when she got close, even while she was tearing into me. "Not going to happen, I'm here for business. That's all."

As I watch Drew drive away, I try to convince myself I mean it.

I'm here to close a deal, not... whatever that was with the food truck owner. Skye.

Even her name makes me scowl.

I head into the inn, curry-stained and annoyed, determined to focus on what matters: business.

Everything else – especially infuriating, beautiful food truck owners – is a distraction.

A distraction I fully intend to avoid.

Starting now.