Falling For Dr. Billionaire (Untamed #2)

The Collision

1

____

LENA'S POV

The late afternoon sunlight filters through the trees, casting a golden glow over the winding road into Portside Bay. The town hasn’t changed much since I last saw it—quaint houses with colorful shutters line the streets, their front yards bursting with hydrangeas and wildflowers. The familiar sight tugs at my heart, stirring a bittersweet mix of nostalgia and sorrow that catches me off guard.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I pass the weathered sign that reads Welcome to Portside Bay: Where Waves Meet Hearts. My grandmother used to laugh at that tagline, calling it something out of a cheesy romance novel. But now, as I see those words, a lump forms in my throat.

She’s gone.

The reality of her absence crashes over me, a fresh wave of grief breaking against the fragile wall I’ve built to hold it back. Just two days ago, I stood in the town’s tiny chapel, surrounded by faces I hadn’t seen in years, saying goodbye to the woman who was my anchor, my guide, my everything.

Her celebration of life was as vibrant as she had been—filled with laughter, stories, and even a bit of her favorite jazz music. It was exactly what she would have wanted, but none of it made saying goodbye any easier.

The buzzing of my phone pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. I glance at the screen and see Eva’s name. A small, shaky smile tugs at my lips as I press the speaker button.

“Hey,” I say, my voice catching slightly.

“Lena,” Eva’s voice wraps around me, warm and grounding, like a cozy blanket on a bitterly cold day. “How are you holding up?”

I hesitate, unsure how to sum up the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. “I’m… managing,” I say finally, though the word feels inadequate.

“That’s something,” she says gently, her tone inviting but not prying. “Where are you now?”

“Just pulled into Portside Bay,” I reply, glancing at the familiar streets. I pass the old bakery where my grandmother used to buy me sticky buns on Saturday mornings, the sight stirring both warmth and an ache in my chest.

“How does it feel to be back?” Eva asks.

I let out a soft laugh, though it holds no humor. “Strange. Familiar and foreign all at once.”

Eva doesn’t press me, and I’m grateful. She’s always known when to push and when to let me find my own words.

“I meant what I said at the funeral,” she says after a pause. “I’m here for you, Lena. Anytime you need to talk, vent, or even just sit on the phone in silence—call me.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat tightening as emotion wells up. Her unwavering support feels like a lifeline, even if I don’t fully know how to grasp it yet.

We fall into a comfortable silence for a moment before she speaks again. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do next? Are you staying in Portside Bay for a while?”

“For now,” I say, my gaze flickering to the familiar sights outside the car window. “There’s so much to sort through—her house, her things… and the clinic.”

“The clinic,” Eva echoes, her voice thoughtful. “That’s a big legacy to take on.”

“It is,” I admit, a flicker of uncertainty creeping into my tone. “But it was her life’s work, and I can’t just walk away from it.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Eva says with quiet confidence. “If anyone can handle this, it’s you.”

“Thanks, Eva,” I reply, my lips curving into a small smile for the first time all day.

As I pull into the driveway of my grandmother’s house, the sight of the weathered white porch and the vibrant garden she cherished so much makes me stop. This was her sanctuary, the heart of her world—a place brimming with warmth and wisdom. And now, it’s mine to care for.

“Eva, I should go,” I say, blinking back tears. “I just got to the house.”

“Of course,” she replies gently. “Take your time, Lena. And remember, I’m just a call away.”

“I know,” I say, grateful for her steady presence. “Thank you.”

As the call ends, I sit for a moment in the quiet of the car, staring at the house. Memories flood back like an unrelenting tide. I see her sitting on the porch with a steaming cup of tea, her laughter ringing out as she tended to her roses, the comforting aroma of freshly baked bread wafting through the kitchen. Each image is a small, precious piece of her—a mosaic of a life so beautifully lived.

Taking a deep breath, I step out of the car. The gravel crunches beneath my feet as the earthy aroma of lavender and basil from her garden wraps around me. The air feels heavier, as if the house itself is aware of her absence. This is where it all begins again—where I’ll try to honor her legacy while finding my footing in the life she left behind.

Taking a deep breath, I step out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. The familiar earthy aroma of lavender and basil from the garden wraps around me, as if the house itself is welcoming me back. This is where it all begins again—where I’ll try to honor her legacy while finding my footing in the life she left behind.

After unpacking the essentials, I head toward her clinic, just a short walk down the road. Its charming exterior, painted a soft blue with white trim, stands exactly as I remember—a beacon of healing and comfort for Portside Bay.

The moment I step inside, the scent of dried herbs and lavender surrounds me, warm and soothing. The soft creak of the wooden floorboards feels like a familiar greeting, and the sunlight streaming through the windows bathes the room in a golden glow, adding to its welcoming atmosphere.

This clinic isn’t just a building; it’s a testament to my grandmother’s life’s work. For decades, she poured her heart into healing this community, relying on wisdom passed down through generations. Her methods weren’t taught in universities or measured in degrees, but they were no less powerful.

I run my fingers along the rows of meticulously labeled jars on the shelves: chamomile, elderberry, echinacea—all harvested from her beloved garden. Her voice echoes in my mind, calm and steady, explaining the properties of each herb as she brewed teas or crafted tinctures with patient hands.

The weight of her absence settles heavily on my chest. How can I possibly fill the void she left behind? How do I live up to a legacy so deeply intertwined with the lives of everyone in this town?

A knock at the door startles me out of my thoughts. Turning, I see Marianne standing there, her warm, familiar smile instantly easing some of the tension in my chest. Marianne had been my grandmother’s closest confidante and most loyal supporter, more family than friend.

“Lena,” she says, her face lighting up as she steps into the clinic. “I wasn’t sure you’d be back so soon.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” I admit, mirroring her smile. “But this place… it’s where I need to be.”

She nods, her eyes soft as they scan the room. “Your grandmother would be so proud of you,” she says quietly, her voice full of conviction.

Before I can reply, a deep, unfamiliar voice interrupts.

“Is this the clinic everyone keeps talking about?”

I glance past Marianne and freeze. Standing in the doorway is a tall man with sharp, angular features and piercing blue eyes that seem to hold both confidence and curiosity. Everything about him—his perfectly tailored suit, his commanding presence—screams "big city." He looks entirely out of place in this cozy space.

Marianne turns, raising an eyebrow as she regards him. “You must be Noah Grant.”

He nods, stepping into the room as his gaze sweeps over the jars and dried herbs. “I am. And you must be Lena Torres,” he says, turning to me and extending a hand. “I’m the project manager for the new Portside Bay Medical Center.”

So, this is him. The man behind the hospital project my grandmother had vehemently opposed until her last breath. The man whose plans threaten to unravel everything she worked so hard to build.

I take his hand, my grip firm and unyielding. “I’ve heard about you.”

His lips curve in a faint, unreadable smile. “Likewise.”

Marianne clears her throat, glancing between us. “We should head to the meeting. We don’t want to be late.”

I grab my bag and follow them out, the cool evening air brushing against my skin. But my blood simmers beneath the surface. If Noah Grant thinks he can waltz in and steamroll this community with his shiny new hospital, he’s in for a rude awakening.

The atmosphere inside the town hall is charged as the meeting drags into the late evening. I’ve made my case, but I can still feel Noah Grant’s presence like an oppressive weight pressing down on me. His poised, confident demeanor is the antithesis of everything I stand for, yet there’s something about him—something disarming.

He’s at the podium now, addressing the council and the townspeople with an infuriating blend of charm and precision. His hands move as he speaks, emphasizing his points with deliberate, practiced gestures. His voice—calm, measured, and undeniably persuasive—cuts through the room like a blade.

“This hospital,” he says, his tone steady and commanding, “isn’t just about providing treatment. It’s about innovation, about bringing cutting-edge medical advancements to Portside Bay. This community deserves more than outdated facilities and limited options.”

The murmurs of approval that ripple through the crowd send a spike of frustration through me. I can’t sit silently any longer.

“Options are great, Dr. Grant,” I say, my voice cutting through the room like a whip. “But what good are they if they come at the cost of this community’s identity? You talk about saving lives, but what about improving them? What about investing in the things that make life worth living?”

All eyes turn to me, and for a moment, I feel the weight of their collective gaze. Noah’s sharp blue eyes lock onto mine, his expression a mixture of curiosity and irritation.

“I’m not suggesting we disregard the community’s needs, Ms. Torres,” he replies, his tone controlled but firm. “But sometimes progress requires change. Isn’t that worth considering?”

“Progress?” I echo, my frustration boiling over. “Do you know what ‘progress’ meant for Portside Bay the last time a big corporation came here? At first, we believed the promises. They sent doctors who seemed to care—who said they wanted to make things better for the community. And for a little while, they did. People trusted them. We trusted them. But then something shifted.”

I pause, my voice tightening with emotion. “The good doctors—the ones who genuinely cared about the people in this town—started leaving. Pushed out, replaced by a revolving door of faces who treated this town like a pit stop on their way to somewhere better. Suddenly, care wasn’t about healing; it was about profits. Prescriptions piled up, treatments became more expensive, and the personal touch that we trusted disappeared completely.”

My gaze sweeps across the room, meeting the eyes of the council members and townspeople. “You know what happened next. Families started drowning in medical debt. People lost their homes trying to pay for treatments they were told they needed but never actually helped them. They gave up. They stopped taking the medications they couldn’t afford. They stopped going to appointments because they couldn’t stand to be treated like numbers on a spreadsheet.”

I take a breath, my voice trembling but steadying as I press on. “It took years for this town to find hope again. Years of my grandmother working day and night, rebuilding trust and reminding people that their health wasn’t just a line item on someone else’s profit margin. She showed them there was another way. A better way. She didn’t have a multi-million-dollar facility, but she gave people something no hospital ever did: care that wasn’t tied to the size of their wallets.”

Noah’s sharp blue eyes remain fixed on me, but I don’t falter. “And now, you want to start that cycle all over again? Do you really expect us to believe that this hospital will be any different? That it’ll be about care and not about money? Because no hospital has ever been more about care than profits—not in Portside Bay, and not anywhere else.”

My words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of the town’s collective memory. The room is silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Noah steps away from the podium, his expression unreadable as he studies me. “I understand your concerns,” he says, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “And I respect the legacy your grandmother built. But don’t you think her work deserves to be honored alongside progress? This doesn’t have to be an either-or situation.”

The room is so quiet, I can hear the faint hum of the overhead lights. Every face is turned toward me, some filled with anger, others with quiet admiration. And then there’s Noah. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something—doubt? Curiosity? Guilt?—that makes my pulse quicken.

I take a steadying breath, my voice softening but no less resolute. “You say this doesn’t have to be an either-or situation, Dr. Grant. But what you’re offering isn’t progress for Portside Bay. It’s a risk we can’t afford to take.”

The room falls silent. Every eye is on us, the tension in the air so thick it’s almost tangible.

Noah steps away from the podium, his gaze unwavering. “I respect what your grandmother did for this town,” he says, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “But don’t you think her legacy could be honored alongside progress? This doesn’t have to be an either-or situation.”

His words prick at my anger, deflating it slightly. There’s a sincerity in his tone that I wasn’t expecting, and for a moment, I see something beneath his polished exterior—a glimmer of vulnerability, maybe even doubt.

But before I can respond, the council chair clears his throat, signaling the end of the meeting.

“Thank you, Dr. Grant, and thank you, Ms. Torres, for your passionate input,” he says diplomatically. “We’ll take all perspectives into account as we move forward.”

As the room begins to empty, murmurs of conversation filling the air, I gather my things, my mind a whirlwind of everything I wish I’d said—and the things I’m still trying to make sense of.