6. SKYE

Chapter six

SKYE

I'm practically drowned in glitter right now.

And somehow, there's paint in my hair. Again. But you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way.

This community art show is going to be epic, even if it kills me. Which, at this rate, it just might.

So yes, I organized an art show for our people to showcase their talents and help ease their minds off the issue about the potential buyout. And hopefully it will engage more people to protest the buyout.

"A little to the left, Mr. Jenkins!" I call out, watching as our town's oldest resident tries to hang a watercolor seascape. He's wobbling on that ladder like a Jenga tower in an earthquake.

I rush over, steadying the ladder. "On second thought, how about I take care of the hanging? You've done more than enough."

Mr. Jenkins grins down at me. "Nonsense, Skye! I may be old, but, as they say, I'm not dead yet."

I bite back a laugh. "Trust me, I know. But if you fall and break a hip, who's going to eat all my experimental tacos?"

He chuckles and climbs down, patting my cheek. "You're a good girl, Skye. This town's lucky to have you."

I feel my cheeks heat up.

Compliments always make me squirm, but coming from Mr. Jenkins? It's like being praised by Santa Claus.

"Thanks," I mumble, then quickly change the subject. "So, where should we hang this masterpiece?"

As we find the perfect spot for Mr. Jenkins' painting, I can't help but marvel at how this art show came together.

It started as a crazy idea over margaritas with Zoey last week, and now? The community center looks like Etsy and Pinterest had a baby, and that baby exploded.

There are paintings, sculptures, handmade jewelry, even a quilt that tells the history of Seaside Cove through fabric. It's chaotic and mismatched and absolutely perfect.

I step back, surveying the room. People are milling about, setting up their pieces or just admiring the work. There's energy in the air, a buzz of excitement that makes me giddy.

"We did it, Zo," I say, bumping my hip against my best friend's as she joins me.

Zoey grins, her red hair as wild as ever. "Correction: YOU did it. This was all your crazy idea."

I roll my eyes. "Please. Without you, I'd probably be buried under a pile of papier-maché seagulls right now."

"True," she nods sagely. "I am the voice of reason to your chaos."

"You? Voice of reason?" I snort. "Need I remind you of the Great Flamingo Incident of '22?"

Zoey's eyes widen in mock horror. "We swore never to speak of that again!"

We dissolve into giggles, and for a moment, I forget about all the stress of the past week.

The late nights planning, the endless phone calls to artists, the struggle to get Mayor Thompson to agree to let us use the community center. It all fades away in the face of Zoey's laughter and the joyful atmosphere around us.

But then I catch sight of the clock and yelp. "Crap! We open in ten minutes, and I still haven't set up my booth!"

Zoey raises an eyebrow. "Your booth? Since when do you make art?"

I stick out my tongue at her. "Ha ha. I'll have you know my food is art, thank you very much. Edible, delicious art."

"Oh no," Zoey groans. "Please tell me you're not subjecting these poor, unsuspecting people to your experiments."

"Hey!" I protest, swatting her arm. "My fusion tacos are genius, and you know it."

"If by 'genius' you mean 'crimes against nature', then sure."

I gasp in mock outrage. "Just for that, you're not getting any of my mango-habanero-chocolate salsa."

Zoey's face scrunches up. "Thank God for small mercies."

I laugh and head towards my booth, where Bessie Jr. (my portable cooking station, not to be confused with Bessie Sr., my food truck) is waiting. As I start setting up, arranging my ingredients and firing up the portable stove, I feel a familiar thrill of excitement.

This is what I love – creating something new, something unexpected. Bringing flavors together in ways that shouldn't work but somehow do. It's like painting, but with taste instead of color.

As the first visitors start to trickle in, I take a deep breath, savoring the mix of aromas in the air. Paint and clay, flowers from Mrs. Delmar's booth, and the spices from my own station all blend together in a uniquely Seaside Cove scent.

I look around at the vibrant art, the smiling faces, the sense of community that fills every corner of this room. This, right here, is why I fight so hard against any corporate buyout. This is what Troy, and his fancy suit can never understand.

Speaking of Troy... I find myself scanning the crowd, wondering if he'll show up.

Not that I care, of course. It's just... professional curiosity.

Yeah, that's it.

I shake my head, pushing thoughts of an annoyingly handsome CEO out of my mind.

Let the art show begin!

An hour or so later, the art show is in full swing, and I'm in my element. My little cooking station's buzzing with curious faces, some excited, others... well, let's just say skeptical.

But hey, that's half the fun, right?

"Step right up, folks!" I call out, waving a spoon like a magician's wand. "Who's brave enough to try my mango-habanero-chocolate salsa?"

A few brave souls step forward, and I beam. That's what I love about Seaside Cove – always up for an adventure, even if it might set their taste buds on fire.

I'm in the middle of explaining my culinary "masterpiece" to Mr. Musk when I spot him.

Troy.

Mr. Fancy Pants himself, standing in the doorway looking all lost and out of place.

Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.

And boy, did that cat have good taste.

Troy's wearing a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his oh-so-beautiful tanned, muscular forearms. Dark jeans hug his legs in all the right places, and his usually slicked-back hair is slightly tousled, like he's been running his hands through it.

It's a softer look than his usual power suits, and I hate that it's working for him.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as I hand out samples. He's actually making an effort, stopping at each booth, talking to the artists.

Color me surprised. Like really.

"Earth to Skye!" Zoey's voice snaps me back. "You're about to overflow that taco."

Oops . I quickly adjust, flashing a grin at my waiting customers. "Just making sure you get your money's worth!"

But my eyes keep drifting back to Troy. He's at Mr. Jenkins' booth now, and... oh .

Oh wow.

He's… he’s smiling.

An actual, genuine smile that transforms his whole face. His eyes crinkle at the corners, little laugh lines appearing that I've never noticed before. There's a dimple in his left cheek that makes my heart do a weird flip-flop thing.

It's like watching the sun come out after a storm, warm and bright and...

Wait, what am I thinking? This is Troy the Grump we're talking about!

Before I know it, he's at my booth. Great. Just great.

"Interesting... combination," he says, eyeing my salsa.

I cross my arms, chin up. "Scared your taste buds can't handle it?"

He raises an eyebrow, that smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. "Is that a challenge, Ms. Martinez?"

Oh, it's on. I load up a chip with a heaping dollop of salsa and hand it to him with a sweet smile. "Bon appétit, Mr. Troy."

He takes a bite, and I watch, waiting for the explosion. But it doesn't come. Instead, he chews thoughtfully, then nods. "Not bad. The chocolate balances out the heat nicely."

I blink. Did Troy just compliment my cooking? Is the world ending?

"Uh, thanks," I manage, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my chest. "So... enjoying the show?"

He nods, looking around. "It's impressive. I had no idea Seaside Cove had so much talent."

"Yeah, well, there's a lot about this town you don't know," I say, but without my usual bite.

We fall into conversation, and it's... weird.

Good weird, though.

We talk about the art, about creativity, about the importance of expression. And the strangest part? I'm actually enjoying it. His eyes light up when he talks about a painting he liked, and I find myself hanging on every word.

"You know," Troy says, gesturing at my booth, "this is art too. What you do with food. It's creative and unexpected. It's... admirable."

I feel my cheeks heat up. What is happening? Am I blushing because of Troy?

"Thanks," I mumble. "Your, uh, your appreciation for art is pretty admirable too."

He smiles – another real one, complete with that heart-melting dimple – and I feel something flutter in my chest.

Oh no. No, no, no.

This is not happening. I am not developing feelings for the enemy. Nope.

Not me.

But as I watch him move on to the next booth, still smiling and chatting, I can't help but wonder: who is this guy, really? And why do I suddenly want to find out?

I shake my head, trying to clear it. Focus, Skye. You've got a job to do.

But focusing is easier said than done.

The rest of the art show flies by in a blur of colors, flavors, and... and … this infuriatingly gorgeous man. I can't seem to keep my eyes off him, and it's driving me nuts.

Every time I hear his laugh from across the room, my head snaps up like it's on a string.

"Okay, what's the deal?" Zoey sidles up to me, eyebrow raised. "You've been staring at Mr. Corporate America all night."

"What? No, I haven't," I scoff, feeling my cheeks heat up. "I'm just... keeping an eye on the enemy."

Zoey snorts. "Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England. Spill, Martinez."

I open my mouth to argue, but just then, Troy catches my eye from across the room … and smiles.

That dimple appears again, and I swear my knees go weak. What is happening to me?

"Earth to Skye!" Zoey waves a hand in front of my face. "Oh my God, you've got it bad."

"I do not!" I hiss, but even I can hear the lack of conviction in my voice.

As the event winds down, I start packing up my station. Troy's long gone, probably back to the inn or wherever corporate types go after mingling with us commoners. But I can still see his smile, still hear his laugh.

"Great job, Skye," Mayor Thompson says, patting me on the back. "This event was a real success."

I nod, trying to focus. "Thanks, Mayor. I'm glad it worked out."

But even as I chat with the lingering attendees and help clean up, my mind keeps drifting back to Troy.

The way his eyes lit up when he talked about Mr. Jenkins' seascape. How he actually listened when I babbled about my weird food combinations. The warmth of his hand when it accidentally brushed mine…

It’s almost like I’m in high school again and I’m crushing on the annoying popular jock in my grade.

Ugh!

Stop it, Skye! I mentally slap myself. This is Troy we're talking about. The guy who ran into your truck and probably doesn’t give two cents about Seaside Cove. The enemy, remember?

But as I pack up Bessie Jr. and head home, I can't shake the image of his smile. It's like it's burned into my brain, popping up every time I close my eyes.

I flop onto my bed, groaning into my pillow.

This is bad. This is very, very bad.

Because for the first time since I met him, I'm not seeing Troy as the enemy. I'm seeing him as... Troy. And that might be the scariest thing of all.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. "Get it together, Martinez," I mutter to myself. "He's just a guy. A stupidly handsome, surprisingly sweet guy, nothing special, nothing special at all."

Great. Now I'm talking to myself.

About Troy. Again.

I grab my phone, thumb hovering over Zoey's number. I need a distraction, stat.

But what would I even say?

'Hey, remember that guy we are supposed to hate? Yeah, I think I might like him. Send help.'

Nope. Not happening.

Instead, I find myself scrolling through the photos from tonight's event. And there he is, in the background of a group shot. Head thrown back in laughter, eyes crinkled, that damn dimple on full display.

My heart does a little somersault, and I groan again. This is going to be a long night.

As I drift off to sleep, one thought keeps circling in my mind.

Who are you really, Mister Troy? And why can't I stop thinking about you?