3. TROY

Chapter three

TROY

The morning sun sneaks through a gap in the curtains, hitting me right in the face.

What the—

I groan and roll over, grabbing my phone.

6:30 AM.

I’m glad that at least some habits don't change, even in this backwater town.

My body aches from the too-soft mattress, and my head aches from... well, probably from all the domestic bliss I endured this weekend.

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He's been replaced by a small town billionaire who thoroughly loves his wife and children.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

Or how Meg insisted on taking a picture, and Drew's knowing smile when I didn't object.

How for simply a moment, I could almost see the appeal of their simple life here.

"Focus," I remind my reflection. "You're here to research the town's weak points, not play happy family."

I gather my laptop and documents, checking my phone for emails.

Three including my two sisters and one from another board member already.

They're getting impatient. I need to start making real progress on this buyout plan.

I open my door, already mentally listing the properties I need to check out today.

The door across the hall clicks shut just as I step out, and suddenly the air is filled with a familiar scent – vanilla and sea salt and...

My heart does a stupid little jump.

It can't be. What am I doing?

I shake my head, trying to clear it.

Great. Now I'm imagining things. That food truck owner – Skye – is living rent-free in my head, and I haven't even seen her since the curry incident.

"Get it together," I mutter, straightening my tie. "You have work to do."

But as I head downstairs, I can't shake the lingering scent of vanilla, or the way my skin prickled when I caught it.

It's because I'm tired, I tell myself, and confused after a weekend of watching my brother play house with his perfect little family.

That's all it is. That's all it can be.

It’s time to get back to what I do best: business. Cold, hard numbers. Properties and profits. Things that make sense.

Unlike the way my heart is still beating a little too fast from a phantom scent in a hallway.

***

The breakfast room is mercifully empty when I get down there. I grab coffee – surprisingly very good– and pull out my laptop.

Time to actually do what I came here for.

Property values in Seaside Cove are a joke. Prime oceanfront real estate is being wasted on mom-and-pop shops and "historic" buildings that are one strong wind away from collapsing.

The potential here... it's almost obscene how much money these people are leaving on the table.

If they won’t take it, I’ll take it.

I spend the morning mapping out the key properties we'll need.

The cozy little motel I found on the outskirts of the town.

The whole waterfront strip.

That old lighthouse that tourists seem to love for some reason.

It's all ripe for development.

My coffee goes cold as I work, but I barely notice.

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."

"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.”

Of course.

I watch her struggle for another moment, a smirk tugging at my lips. "You're doing it wrong."

"I know how to use a key card," she snaps, but the frustrated flush creeping up her neck suggests otherwise.

"Clearly." I push off the doorframe. "It's not rocket science. Just a simple matter of proper timing and..." I reach for her key card, my fingers brushing hers.

She yanks her hand back like she's been burned, but not before I catch the key card.

The movement throws her off balance, and she stumbles backward, right into me.

My hands instinctively go to her waist to steady her. Suddenly, the hallway feels about ten degrees warmer and forty feet smaller.

"I don't need your help," she says, but she's not moving away.

"Evidence suggests otherwise." My voice comes out lower than I intended.

Her vanilla and sea salt fragrance is doing strange things to my ability to think straight.

The door across the hall opens, and we both jump apart like guilty teenagers. An elderly couple walks past, giving us knowing looks that make my ears burn.

I clear my throat and swipe her key card with perhaps more force than necessary. The light turns green. "There. Was that so difficult?"

She snatches the card back, her fingers grazing my palm. "I loosened it for you."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

The reminder of my actual purpose here lands like a bucket of cold water. "Actually, yes. Important meeting. Thank you for reminding me.”

"Whatever." She steps into her room, then pauses. "Oh, and by the way? Your tie is crooked."

The door closes in my face before I can tell her I'm not even wearing a tie. I adjust my collar anyway, cursing under my breath.

This female is going to be the death of me.

I absolutely know it.

When I finally make it to the diner, Drew is waiting with two cups of coffee and a mischievous expression. It tells me he saw Skye heading to my hallway.

Why does he keep seeing me in this state?

"Not. One. Word." I slide into the booth across from him.

"Wouldn't dream of it." He pushes one of the drinks toward me. "Though I have to say, brother, I've never seen you quite so... ruffled by someone before."

I take a long chug of coffee, buying time. "I'm not ruffled. I'm annoyed. There's a difference."

"Uh-huh." Drew leans back, studying me. "So, want to tell me what you're really doing here? Because I know it's not only to harass attractive food truck owners."

And there it is.

I set down my cup, meeting his gaze. "Board members want to acquire more key properties in Seaside Cove. Transform it into a luxury destination." The words taste bitter, even more so after seeing how Drew's expression darkens.

"They want to what?" His voice is quiet, dangerous. "Troy, these are people's livelihoods. Their homes. You can't just-"

"You think I don't know that?" I run a hand through my hair as I interrupt. "But the board is unanimous, including our sisters. It's business. It’s what big businesses do. They take over. Even our sisters are pushing for it. If we don't move on it, our competitors will."

"Since when do you care what the board wants?"

I glare at my brother. "Since you decided to stay in this small town, and I had to become the singular person to answer to them." I lean forward. "Look, I'm not exactly happy about this either, but-"

"But nothing." Drew cuts me off. "This isn't just some place you can ruin, Troy. This is my home now. These are my neighbors. My friends." He pauses meaningfully. "Including the owner of a certain food truck."

I ignore the jab. "I don't have a choice."

"There's always a choice." Drew stands, leaving his coffee untouched. "You have to decide what kind of man you want to be." He walks away, leaving me alone with a cold coffee and even colder thoughts.

I stare into my cup, seeing Skye's angry eyes reflected in the dark liquid. For the first time in my career, I'm not sure I like the man looking back at me.