4. SKYE

Chapter four

SKYE

The next day, I'm elbow-deep in a bowl of mango salsa when inspiration strikes. "Ooh, what if I add a little bit of cumin?" I mutter, reaching for my spice rack.

My food truck, Bessie, might be tiny, but she's got everything I need to whip up some sweet magic.

The morning sun streams through Bessie's window, catching the sparkle of the ocean in the distance. I take a deep breath, savoring the mix of sea salt and spices.

This is my happy place, creating new flavors inspired by my travels. Okay maybe it’s from books about the travels I want to take.

I sprinkle in cumin, give it a stir, and take a taste. "Well, hot damn, that's good!" I do a little dance, spatula in hand.

Take that, Michelin-star chefs. Skye Martinez is coming for your jobs.

I giggle to myself, loving what I’ve been cooking up lately.

As I'm jotting down the recipe in my sauce-splattered notebook, a shadow falls across my counter. I look up, ready to greet my first customer of the day, and...

Ugh. It's him. Mr. Fancy Pants himself.

I still can’t believe he’s also staying at Seaside Cove inn. And now I’m staying there, and right across the hall. It’s crazy.

I wish Zoey’s boyfriend was on one of his usual trips and not home. Then I wouldn’t be staying at the inn with this irritating man across the hall.

He's standing here in another one of those crisp suits that most likely cost more than my entire food truck.

Does this guy own anything casual? Like, I don't know, a T-shirt that doesn't have a designer label?

I paste on my best 'the customer is always right' smile. "Well, if it isn't the walking disaster. Come back for round two with my truck?"

He frowns, those stormy gray eyes narrowing. "I assure you, that incident was accidental."

"Uh-huh. And I'm secretly Gordon Ramsay in disguise." I wave my spatula at him. "What can I do for you, Mr...?"

"Troy."

Tsk. I roll my eyes. "Okay, James Bond. You want food or are you just here to intimidate my poor, defenseless food truck?"

He looks offended, which, honestly, is kind of hilarious. And all he can manage is: "I'm merely observing local businesses, for... research purposes."

"Research, huh?" I lean forward, propping my elbows on the counter. "And what exactly are you researching? The best way to ruin a girl's day with your face?"

His jaw tightens. Oh, I've hit a nerve. Good.

"I'm interested in the... economic viability of small businesses in coastal towns."

I narrow my eyes. Something's fishy here, and it's not my award-winning ceviche. "Uh-huh. And I'm sure that has nothing to do with the rumors about some big corporation sniffing around our town?"

He shifts slightly. Gotcha .

"I assure you, Ms...?"

"Martinez. Skye Martinez."

"Ms. Martinez. I assure you; my interests are purely academic."

I snort. "Yeah, and I'm purely here to serve overpriced tacos to sunburned tourists." I grab a plate, slapping together one of my signature fusion tacos. "Here. On the house. Consider it a peace offering - after you nearly destroyed my livelihood."

He takes the taco, eyeing it suspiciously. "What is this?"

"It's called food, Mr. Troy. You eat it. Or do they not have that where you come from?"

He takes a cautious bite, and I watch with satisfaction as his eyes widen. Yeah, that's right, Mr. Corporate. Skye Martinez can cook.

"This is... surprisingly good," he admits grudgingly.

"Gee, thanks. I'll put that on my Yelp page. 'Surprisingly good' - Troy, Guy Who Hates Joy."

He finishes the taco in a few more bites, and I can't help but notice a smear of sauce on his chin.

It's oddly humanizing.

"So, Mr. Troy," I say, leaning on the counter again. "Why don't you tell me what you really think about small businesses in towns like ours? I'm all ears."

He hesitates, and for a moment, I see something flicker in those gray eyes. Uncertainty? Guilt? But then it's gone, replaced by that cool, corporate mask.

"I think," he says slowly, "that progress is inevitable. And sometimes, small businesses need to adapt or... make way for larger enterprises that can better serve the community."

Oh, it is sooooo on!

"Better serve the community?" I can feel my temper rising, hot as my habanero sauce. "Let me tell you something about community, Mr. Troy..."

I lean in, my eyes locked on his. "Community isn't about profit margins or economies of scale. It's about knowing your customers' names, their kids' favorite flavors, and that Mrs. Johnson is allergic to cilantro."

He opens his mouth to argue, but I'm on a roll now.

"It's about sponsoring little league teams and donating to school fundraisers. Tell me, when was the last time a CEO of a big corporation showed up at a local town meeting?"

Troy's eyes narrow. "Large companies provide jobs, stability-"

"Stability?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You mean like when they close up shop the second profits dip, leaving entire towns unemployed?"

He steps closer to the counter, his voice low and intense. "That's a simplification and you know it. Big businesses bring infrastructure and investment."

"At what cost?" I shoot back, leaning in even closer. "The soul of the town? The unique character that makes Seaside Cove special?"

And just like that, we're off. Debating the merits of mom-and-pop shops versus big box stores, arguing about what really makes a town thrive. He's got facts and figures, but I've got passion and firsthand experience.

It's infuriating.

He's infuriating.

But as we go back and forth, I can't help but notice things. The way his eyes light up when he makes a point. The slight twitch of his lips when I counter with something he didn't expect.

And worst of all, the way my heart does a little flip when he leans in, all intense and focused on our debate.

No. Nope.

Not happening. I am not attracted to this corporate robot.

No way, no how.

But as he launches into another argument about economies of scale, I catch myself admiring the way the sun highlights the angles of his face.

Oh, Skye. You are in so much trouble.

We're almost nose to nose now, the counter the only thing between us. I can smell his cologne - something expensive and woodsy that makes my head spin a little.

"You can't stop progress," he says, his breath warm on my face.

"Watch me," I growl.

For a moment, we're frozen like that, staring each other down. His eyes flick to my lips for a split second, and my heart does a traitorous little flip.

I suddenly realize how close we are and jerk back, my cheeks burning. What the hell, Skye?

Troy clears his throat, straightening his tie. Is it my imagination, or does he look a little flushed too?

"This isn't over, Ms. Martinez," he says, but his voice lacks its usual bite.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Troy," I retort, trying to ignore the way my skin tingles where he almost touched me.

As he walks away, I can't help but watch him go.

Stupid, attractive, infuriating man.

I grab a rag and start wiping down the counter with probably more force than necessary.

I'm not thinking about the way his eyes sparkled when we argued.

Or how his voice got all low and rumbly. Or how for a split second there, I maybe, possibly, wanted to grab his stupid fancy tie and-

"Nope!" I say out loud, making a couple walking past jump. "Not going there. Not even a little bit."

I toss the rag aside and start aggressively chopping onions. I am not attracted to this man. I'm not.

Even if he does fill out that suit really well...

"Gah!" I yelp as the knife nicks my finger.

Great. Just great.

As I'm fumbling for a band-aid, my phone pings. It's a reminder about the protest planning meeting with the other business owners.

Right. Focus, Skye. You've got a town to save and a corporate hotshot to take down.

No matter how good he looks doing it.