Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 3 Willow Harper

I'm arranging a bouquet of vibrant wildflowers when the bell above the door chimes. The sound makes me smile—it reminds me of wind chimes tinkling in a summer breeze. Which is fitting, since Sullivan's Flower Shop feels like a little slice of nature indoors.

"Welcome in," I say to the woman entering the shop. She gives me a smile and starts to browse.

Sunlight streams through the big front windows, making the colorful petals glow. The air is heavy with the mingled scents of roses, lilies, and fresh soil. It's peaceful here, surrounded by greenery and birdsong from the parakeets Mrs. Sullivan keeps in the back room.

This used to just be my happy place, an oasis where I could escape the stress of Earth Defenders work and chat with kindred spirit Mrs. Sullivan. But somehow I ended up with an actual job here. Not that I'm complaining—arranging flowers beats organizing protests any day.

I'm lost in thought, absentmindedly playing with the beaded bracelet on my wrist, when movement across the street catches my eye. I look up to see a group of corporate drones in crisp suits filing into the Sinclair Shipping office.

Ugh. There goes my nice view of the quaint storefronts. Now all I see is a symbol of everything wrong with this town.

I roll my eyes. River insists keeping tabs on that place is crucial "surveillance," but I fail to see how watching pencil pushers come and go provides any useful intel. What are we going to learn, their favorite Starbucks orders?

"Earth to Willow," I mutter to myself. "Focus on the flowers, not the fascists."

I turn back to my bouquet, trying to recapture that peaceful feeling. But now I'm acutely aware of the Sinclair office looming across the street, casting a metaphorical shadow over my little oasis of nature. Some days, it feels like we're fighting a losing battle against the machine of industry. But hey, at least I've got my flowers.

The chime of the bell above the door interrupts my brooding. I turn to see who's entered, and lo and behold, it's River. And he looks pissed. But then again, when doesn't he?

He storms in like a hurricane in human form, all raw energy and intensity. His choppy black hair is streaked with electric blue today, matching the fire in his green eyes. As he plops down on the stool in front of the counter, I can't help but notice how his tank top clings to his athletic frame. Not that I'm looking or anything.

"Rough day?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. My heart does a little flip-flop when he meets my gaze. Stupid heart.

River grunts in response, his jaw clenched tight. "You could say that."

I busy myself with trimming stems, definitely not stealing glances at the way his forearms flex as he drums his fingers on the counter. "So, uh, how'd it go at the club yesterday? Any luck convincing the investors to pull out?"

His eyes flash dangerously. "It was a disaster, Willow. A complete waste of time. I can't believe you suggested that bone-headed idea."

I blink, taken aback by the venom in his voice. "Whoa, what happened? I thought?—"

"You thought wrong," he snaps. "Next time, leave the planning to people who know what they're doing."

Ouch. I feel my cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. Part of me wants to snap right back, but I take a deep breath instead. No need to add fuel to whatever fire is burning him up inside.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out," I say softly, setting down my scissors. "Do you want to talk about it?"

River runs a hand through his hair, his frustration radiating off him in waves. "That smug bastard Lawrence Sinclair showed up out of nowhere. Made me look like a complete idiot in front of everyone."

My stomach drops. "Oh no..."

"Yeah, 'oh no' is right," he growls. "It's all over the papers now. Earth Defenders' rep gets schooled by pipeline exec." He slams his fist on the counter, making me jump. "This whole peaceful protest thing? It's not gonna cut it, Willow. We're just spinning our wheels while they steamroll right over us."

I try to put a comforting hand on his arm, but he jerks away like I've burned him. Stung, I pull back, wrapping my arms around myself instead.

"River, come on," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "We've barely started. You can't know it won't work?—"

"Can't I?" he interrupts, eyes flashing. "Wake up, Willow. They're not playing fair, so why should we?"

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this isn't really about me. River's lashing out because he's hurting. Still, I can't let this negativity spread. We've worked too hard.

"Listen," I say, injecting as much calm into my voice as I can muster. "Remember the meditation protest tonight? That could be a game-changer. You're still coming, right?"

River scoffs, pushing away from the counter. "I don't know. Maybe. I need to cool off."

As he storms towards the door, I call after him, "River, wait?—"

But he's already gone, the bell chiming angrily in his wake. His parting words hang in the air: "Do yourself a favor and grow up, Willow. This isn't some hippie fantasy camp."

I stand there, mouth agape, feeling like I've been slapped. The scent of flowers suddenly seems cloying, and I blink back the sting of tears.

Well, that could have gone better.

As I'm still reeling from River's harsh exit, a soft rustling behind me catches my attention. I turn to see Maggie Sullivan emerging from the back room, her silver hair adorned with a crown of tiny forget-me-nots. She's wearing one of her signature flowing skirts, this one a patchwork of earthy greens and browns that reminds me of a forest floor. Her warm brown eyes are filled with concern as she takes in my dejected posture.

"Oh, honey," she says, her voice as soothing as a warm cup of chamomile tea. "I couldn't help but overhear. Are you alright?"

I force a smile, but it feels about as convincing as a plastic flower. "I'm fine, Mrs. S. I'm so sorry about all that noise. River was just... upset."

Mrs. Sullivan's brow furrows, and she places a gentle hand on my arm. "Willow, dear, I know River is your colleague at Earth Defenders, but the way he speaks to you... it's not right. You shouldn't have to endure that kind of treatment."

I feel a rush of defensiveness on River's behalf, even as a part of me knows she's not entirely wrong. "He's just under a lot of stress," I explain, fidgeting with a nearby bouquet. "The fight against the pipeline, it's taking a toll on all of us. River... he just feels things so intensely.”

As the words leave my mouth, I realize how weak they sound. But admitting Mrs. Sullivan might be right feels like a betrayal to River, to our cause. I'm caught between my loyalty and the uncomfortable truth settling in my stomach like a stone.

Mrs. Sullivan's eyes soften, a mixture of understanding and worry swimming in their warm brown depths. She gently guides me to a pair of mismatched chairs tucked in a cozy corner of the shop, surrounded by hanging ferns and the sweet scent of jasmine.

"Sit with me a moment, dear," she says, her voice carrying the weight of experience. "I want to share something with you."

I sink into the well-worn cushion, curiosity mingling with a touch of apprehension. Mrs. Sullivan takes a deep breath, her fingers absently tracing the pattern on her colorful scarf.

"Willow," she begins, her voice as soft as the petals of the hydrangeas on the nearby shelf, "I've seen that kind of anger before." Her gaze drifts to a time long past, a shadow passing over her usually radiant features.

"Back when I was younger—oh, not much older than you—I married a man with a temper. A tempestuous soul, like your River. He'd yell, slam doors, his words sharp as thorns." She folds her hands in her lap, a silver ring glinting faintly. "And I made excuses for him, just like you're doing now."

I shift uncomfortably, biting the inside of my cheek. The comparison stings—am I really so transparent?

"Things got worse after we married," Mrs. Sullivan continues, the weight of her memories pressing down like the heavy summer air of Greenwood Hollow. "He didn't just shake the walls with his shouting; eventually, he... well, he started shaking me too." Her eyes meet mine, filled with a sorrow rooted in experience. "One night, I had to flee with nothing but the clothes on my back."

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. My heart aches for her, for the young woman she once was, running from a life turned nightmare.

"Mrs. S., I—" I swallow hard, my throat tight. "Thank you for telling me. But River, he's all bark, no bite. And besides, he hardly even knows I exist outside of our Earth Defender rallies."

"Still," she says, her tone firm as the stems of the roses she prunes so lovingly, "I don't want you to ever feel trapped, like I did. You deserve someone who brings peace, not turmoil."

I manage a sad smile, glancing out the window at the Sinclair Shipping office across the street, the very antithesis of the tranquility we both crave. "Nice guys are like four-leaf clovers, aren't they? Supposedly out there, but darn if they're not impossible to find."

Her laughter is a warm breeze as she squeezes my hand. "Oh, sweetheart, keep looking. They're more common than you think."

Right on cue, as if summoned by our conversation about elusive nice guys, Lawrence Sinclair steps outside of his office building. His tailored suit and confident walk are the very definition of corporate charisma. Too bad charisma can't reforest clear-cut land or clean an oil spill.

"Speak of the devil," I mutter, watching him begin to walk across the street, a pang of annoyance souring my mood. "There goes the neighborhood, right?"

Mrs. Sullivan tsked, her eyes following my gaze. "Now, Willow, remember what we say about judging books by their covers."

"Unless the cover has 'Property of Lawrence Sinclair' stamped all over it," I quip, unable to resist the jab. "Then I'd say the book is probably not worth reading."

Chuckling, she stands, smoothing out her skirt. "Just be careful, dear. With angry men and with assumptions. Both can surprise you in ways you might not expect."

"Got it, loud and clear." I smile up at her, grateful for the concern wrapped in every word she speaks. Standing, I give her a quick hug, the scent of lavender and kindness enveloping me.

"Thanks, Mrs. S. For everything."