5. TROY

Chapter five

TROY

I can't sleep.

Again.

The clock on my phone shows 5:30 AM, and I'm already dressed in my running gear.

I grunt, my shoes crunching against the sand as I start my run.

The beach is empty, and I’m thankful.

No tourists, no locals, no one to bother me with their small-town cheerfulness.

It’s just the sound of waves and my own thoughts. Perfect.

Except my thoughts are the problem right now.

I try to focus on my pace, on my breathing, on anything except her.

This isn’t why I’m here.

I can’t afford these… distractions.

But like everything else in this town, Skye Martinez has a way of showing up uninvited in my head.

The way she looked at me yesterday at her food truck.

Just how beautiful she looked.

I pick up my pace, as if I can outrun these annoying thoughts.

The sky is starting to lighten, turning the ocean from black to deep blue and I have to admit, it's... not terrible.

Different from the view from my penthouse in New York, but-

"On your left!"

I nearly jump out of my skin as someone runs past me. Someone with wild curls bouncing in a ponytail, wearing shorts that should be illegal this early in the morning.

Skye.

Goodness. And of course it's Skye.

She glances back with a smirk that makes my blood boil. "Keeping up okay there, Wall Street?"

Before I can stop myself, I'm speeding up to catch her. "I wasn't aware the sidewalk outside your food truck counted as a running track."

She laughs – actually laughs – and picks up her pace. "Aw, did I wound your ego? Don't worry, not everyone can handle beach running."

"I handle everything just fine." I match her stride for stride now.

I'm not about to let her win... whatever this is.

"Sure you do." She's not even breathing hard. "That's why you look like you're about to pass out."

I'm not.

I'm just... distracted.

The sunrise is painting everything golden, including her skin. There's a light sheen of sweat on her shoulders, and her cheeks are flushed from running.

It's annoying how good she looks without even trying.

"The sunrise is beautiful here, isn't it?" She slows down suddenly, and I almost trip trying not to run past her.

"It's... adequate." I find myself stopping too, against my better judgment.

She rolls her eyes. "Wow. Let me guess – you prefer the view of concrete and steel?"

"Steel and concrete serve a purpose." But I can't take my eyes off the way the rising sun catches in her hair, turning the edges to fire.

"Everything serves a purpose, Mr. Troy." She stretches her arms above her head, and I definitely don't notice how her tank top rides up. "Even small towns with their messy, organic, human way of life."

I snort. "Is this the part where you tell me about the magic of small-town living?"

"Would you listen if I did?"

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.

The waves crash behind us, and the breeze carries the scent of her shampoo – something tropical that shouldn't work but somehow does.

Like her.

"Probably not," I say finally, but it comes out softer than I intended.

She takes a step closer, and my heart rate picks up in a way that has nothing to do with running. "You know what your problem is, Mr. Tr…? Oh for goodness sake, I’m just going call you Troy.”

The way she says my name shouldn't affect me like this. "I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"You're so busy looking for purpose and profit that you miss the point entirely." She gestures at the sunrise, her face lit up with something that looks dangerously like passion. "Not everything needs to be useful. Sometimes, beautiful is enough."

I want to argue. I want to tell her she's wrong, that everything needs a purpose, a plan, a profit margin.

Instead, I find myself watching the way her lips curve when she smiles, the tiny freckles across her nose that I never noticed before.

"I should go," she says suddenly, taking a step back. "I have a lot to do today

"Running a food truck is hardly-"

"Save it." But she's still smiling, and it does weird things to my chest. "See you around, Wall Street. Try not to get sand in your designer sneakers."

I watch her jog away, trying to ignore how my eyes track the sway of her ponytail, the rhythm of her steps.

The sun is fully up now, painting the whole beach in shades of gold and pink that would probably look great in a marketing brochure for the resort we're planning.

The resort that would put her out of business.

Something twists in my stomach that feels suspiciously like guilt. I push it down and turn back toward the inn. I need a shower, coffee, and to remember why I'm really here.

But as I walk away, I can still smell tropical shampoo on the ocean breeze, and my carefully ordered world feels just a little bit messier than before.

Damn this town. Damn this sunrise.

And damn Skye Martinez for making me notice both.

That's the only explanation for why I'm sitting in Seaside Cove's tiny excuse for a library instead of working on acquisition reports hours later.

The librarian, Mrs. Tamara, keeps shooting me suspicious looks over her cat shaped eyeglasses.

She’s probably wondering why a man in a three-thousand-dollar suit is digging through dusty town records.

I loosen my tie. "These records are public, correct?"

"Oh, indeed." She shuffles over, and before I can stop her, she's pulling out more ancient-looking albums. "But if you're interested in our history, I've got better stories than these old papers."

Great. Just what I need – another local eager to talk my ear off.

But then she drops a photo album in front of me, and something catches my eye.

The inn. But not like it is now. The photo's black and white, showing damage from what looks like a massive storm.

"Hurricane of '85," Mrs. Tamara says, like she's reading my mind. "Nearly wiped out the whole town. That's my father there, and the Martinez family – they're Skye's grandparents, actually."

I sit up straighter at the mention of Skye. "Her grandparents?"

"Mhmm. Their restaurant fed the whole town while we rebuilt. Didn't charge a dime." She taps another photo. "And look here – the inn. After the hurricane, the big hotel chains swooped in, tried to buy up all the damaged properties. Offered good money too."

My throat feels tight. “Smart business move."

She makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-snort. "That's what they said. But George Martinez – Skye's grandfather – he organized everyone. Got them to hold out. 'This town's not for sale,' he'd say. 'Some things are worth more than money.'"

I flip through more photos. The town rebuilding. People working together.

Community meetings in what looks like the same hall where they're now planning to fight off... Well, people like me.

"The big companies said we'd fail without them." Mrs. Tamara’s voice has an edge now. "But look around, Mr. Troy. We're still here. And those companies? They built their fancy resorts somewhere else. Probably all merged and bankrupted by now."

I think of the merger papers sitting in my hotel room. The projected profits. The board's expectations.

"Times are different now," I say, but it sounds weak even to me.

"Are they?" She picks up a more recent photo. It's Skye, younger, helping her grandfather at what must be the original version of her food truck.

She's laughing at something off-camera, flour on her cheek, looking so... happy.

Free.

Something twists in my chest.

My phone buzzes – probably Lillian or Mona checking on my progress.

I ignore it.

"Why are you really here, Mr. Troy?" Mrs. Tamara asks quietly.

I close the album maybe a bit too quickly. "Just doing market research."

"Mm." She gives me a look that's too knowing for comfort. "You know, sometimes the best business decision isn't the obvious one."

"I didn't come here for advice," I say, standing up.

"No?" She starts gathering the albums. "Then why did you come?"

I straighten my tie, trying to find my usual certainty. "Like I said. Research."

"Well," she smiles, "I hope you found what you were looking for."

I'm halfway to the door when her voice stops me again.

"Mr. Troy? That young woman in the photo? The one with flour on her face?" She waits until I look back. "She's still that same girl. This town... it lets people be who they really are. Even visitors who wear very expensive looking suits."

I escape into the street, loosening my tie again.

The sun is too bright, the air too fresh, everything too real. I pull out my phone, looking at the missed calls from my sisters.

A food truck horn honks nearby – not Skye's, but for a second my heart jumps anyway.

I grunt in annoyance.

I need a drink. And it's not even noon.

I head back to the inn, my shoes clicking against the sidewalk in an angry rhythm. But I can't shake the image of young Skye laughing in that photo, or the way her grandfather stood up to companies just like mine.

Just like me.

The worst part?

I'm not sure which side I want to win anymore.

Later in my room, my laptop screen shows two faces that look way too much like mine for comfort.

Lillian’s perfectly styled hair, Mona's executive power suit, and both of them wearing identical expressions of disapproval.

Drew's empty square reminds me that at least one sibling is on my side – sort of. But what side is that?

"Troy, darling," Mona begins, in that voice that means I'm in trouble. "It's been a week. Please tell us that you have good news."

I adjust my collar, buying time. The AC in my room feels suddenly insufficient. "Things are... progressing."

Mona leans closer to her camera. "Progressing? That's not the word I want to hear from my CEO brother about simple land acquisitions in a small town."

Simple. Right.

"The situation is more complex than we anticipated," I say, trying to sound like the CEO I'm supposed to be.

Not like someone who spent his morning staring at old photos and thinking about a certain food truck owner.

"Complex how?" Lillian demands. "The projections are clear. The profit margins-"

"I know the projections." I cut her off more sharply than I intended. "I wrote them, remember?"

"Then what's the problem?" Mona’s voice could freeze hell. "Don't tell me you're going soft on us, Troy. Not you too."

I think of Mrs. Tamara’s knowing look. Of Skye's grandfather standing up to corporations like ours. Of Skye's smile in that old photograph.

"Of course not." The lie tastes bitter. "But rushing this could backfire. These people are... attached to their properties."

Lillian rolls her eyes. "They're always attached. That's why we make offers they can't refuse."

"The board is getting impatient," Mona adds. "And Harrison Corp is sniffing around. If we don't move fast-"

"I know how to do my job," I snap.

Both my sisters raise their eyebrows – a synchronized move that would be funny if it wasn't so annoying.

"Do you?" Lillian's voice softens dangerously. "Because the Troy I know would have closed this deal days ago. The Troy I know wouldn't let some small-town sentimentality-"

"There is no sentimentality." I loosen my tie. When did this room get so hot? "I'm being strategic."

"Strategic?" Mona laughs. "Please. Drew said he saw you with some local girl. A food truck owner?"

My blood runs cold. "Drew needs to mind his own business."

"You are our business," Lillian says. "Daddy left you in charge for a reason, Troy. Don't make us regret supporting that decision."

I count to ten in my head. "Is that a threat?"

"It's a reminder," Mona says. "Of who you are. What this company means. What Daddy built."

"I know what he built!" The words explode out before I can stop them. "I'm the one who's been running it for the past three years, aren't I?"

Silence. Both my sisters stare at me like I've grown a second head.

"Just..." I run a hand through my hair. "Give me two more weeks. I'll handle it."

They exchange a look I can't quite read.

"Two weeks," Lillian says finally. "But Troy? Handle whatever's distracting you first. We can't afford any... complications."

The screen goes black before I can respond. I slam my laptop shut, standing up so fast my chair nearly tips over.

Something crashes in the hallway – probably Skye, being her usual chaotic self in the room across from mine.

For a second, I almost smile.

Then I remember my sisters' words. Remember why I'm really here.

I grab my jacket. I need air. Need to think. Need to remember who Troy Bellamy is supposed to be.

But as I pass her door, I hear her humming something – probably one of those silly pop songs she's always playing at her truck.

And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself wonder what it would be like to be someone else.

Someone who could actually deserve her smile.

But not in this life.

***

The walk didn’t help.

Not at all.

So now, I’m on my third coffee, sitting in the dark of my room like some brooding teenager.

Pathetic.

The acquisition papers are spread across my desk, illuminated only by my laptop screen.

The numbers are solid. The strategy is foolproof. This deal should be the easiest thing I've done all year.

So why can't I just finish it?

A laugh drifts through my window – her laugh. I get up to close it but find myself looking down at the beach instead.

Skye's there with some locals, having what looks like a bonfire. The fire catches the gold in her hair, and even from here, I can see her smile.

That smile. That's the problem.

"Get it together, Bellamy," I mutter, turning back to my desk.

I'm Troy Bellamy. I've closed billion-dollar deals without blinking. I've taken over companies three times our size. I don't get... distracted.

Except I am.

My phone buzzes with another text from Mona: Don't mess this up.

I take another swig of cold coffee. They think I'm going soft on the town.

They're wrong. This place is exactly what I thought it would be – small, inefficient, stuck in the past. Our resort would be an improvement.

But Skye...

"Damn it." I loosen my tie completely, throwing it aside.

Another burst of laughter from outside. I can picture exactly how her eyes crinkle when she laughs, how she throws her head back. How she looked this morning in the sunrise, all fire and defiance.

How she'll look when she finds out who I really am.

My gut twists, and it's not from the coffee.

She'll hate me. Not the playful antagonism we have now, but real hatred.

She'll look at me the way she looks at those developers she's always ranting about.

Because that's exactly what I am.

“It's just business," I tell my empty room. The words sound hollow even to me.

More messages pop up on my phone. Lillian sending market analyses. Mona with board expectations. Harrison Corp's latest moves in the area.

This is what I'm good at. This is what I do. Take underperforming assets, turn them into profit centers. Clean. Simple. No messy emotions.

No beautiful, infuriating women with wild hair and wilder spirits looking at me like I've betrayed them.

Tomorrow, I'll call the lawyers. Start the paperwork. Get this deal moving before Harrison Corp beats us to it. It's the right business decision.

And if my chest feels tight every time that I think about Skye finding out... well, that's what more coffee is for.

I'll close the deal, go back to New York, and forget all about food trucks and sunrises and smiles that make me forget who I'm supposed to be.

It's just business.

But as another laugh floats up from the beach, I realize I'm not even convincing myself anymore.

I grab my phone, dialing the family lawyers' number. Then I hang up before it connects.

Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow.

Tonight, I'll let myself watch the bonfire a little longer, pretending I'm someone who could walk down there and sit beside her. Someone who deserves that smile.

But I'm not. I'm Troy Bellamy, CEO of Bellamy Hotels and Inns. And I have a job to do.