Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 5 Willow

Perched atop the crest of a rolling hill, I sit cross-legged, surrounded by my fellow Earth Defenders. We form a circle around an ancient oak tree, its gnarled roots digging into the earth like the hands of Mother Nature herself, gripping tightly to prevent her child from being torn away. This is our peaceful protest, a serene demonstration against the impending invasion of Sinclair Shipping's bulldozers.

I close my eyes, taking in a deep breath of the crisp air, trying to channel tranquility through every pore. Inhale peace, exhale... Lawrence Sinclair's infuriating smirk? Yeah, that wasn't part of the plan.

Instead of finding inner calm, my mind circles back to this afternoon's run-in with the man himself, Lawrence Sinclair. The encounter was as pleasant as a root canal, and yet, there he was, frustratingly attractive in that tailored suit that clung to him like a second skin. The way he waltzed into the flower shop, all red hair and hazel-eyed confidence, had half the room swooning and the other half gasping for air—his ego alone sucking up all the oxygen. The only problem was that I was the only one in the room.

"Focus," I mutter to myself, trying to shake the image of his smug grin from my thoughts. It's just that he's so... argh, too much. Like a walking advertisement for cologne and entitlement, he somehow manages to be both dazzling and insufferable.

"Picture the serenity of the forest," I remind myself, trying to conjure up the soothing whispers of leaves instead of his smooth, manipulative tones that seemed to wrap around me like ivy, pulling tighter until I'm caught in his thorny grip. But all I can picture are those piercing eyes that don't just look at you—they look through you, searching for weaknesses to exploit.

I'm frustrated at his uncanny ability to occupy my headspace rent free. He's not even my type. I have a crush on River, I remind myself. Even if we sometimes disagree, someone like River aligns better with my principles and who I want to be. I could never be with someone like Sinclair. He basically encompasses everything I'm running away from.

And yet, here I am, thinking about how his presence felt like a challenge, a puzzle I never asked to solve but can't help wanting to decipher.

"Let go of all distractions," I whisper, attempting once more to return to the purpose of our gathering—to save this beautiful, living monument from becoming a footnote in Sinclair's industrial empire. This tree, our symbol of resistance, deserves better than to end up as sawdust beneath steel-toed boots.

"Ground yourself," I coax my wandering mind. "Feel the earth beneath you, connect with its energy..."

But the energy I'm channeling feels less like the nurturing hum of the planet and more like the static before a storm. A storm named Lawrence Sinclair.

The circle of meditation breaks like a soap bubble popped by the finger of reality. I'm still nestled in the grass, the smell of earth filling my lungs, but there's no peace to be found in the exhale. Beside me, Sage, with her dreadlocks woven with beads that clink softly as she moves, packs up her yoga mat with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

"Willow, you look like you just wrestled with your conscience and lost," she says, her voice a melody of concern. "Everything cool?"

"Ah, actually just wrestling with the ghost of corporate arrogance past," I admit, forcing my lips into a smile that feels as real as a three-dollar bill. "I'm going to try and wrangle some zen for round two with myself."

Sage nods sagely—pun absolutely intended—and gives me a thumbs-up. "You'll get there. The universe always balances out." She walks off, leaving behind a trail of sandalwood scent that makes me wish I could bottle it up and take a whiff every time Sinclair's smug mug pops into my head.

No sooner has Sage's silhouette blended with the horizon than River strides over, his green eyes fixed on me like he can see right through my faux meditative pose. "Cut the act, Willow," he says, a smirk playing on his lips that tells me he's amused by my charade.

I huff, opening my eyes to glare at him. "It's not an act, Riv. Just trying to silence the committee in my head."

"Sounds like a lively debate," he scoffs, plopping down on the grass beside me. His knee brushes mine, sending an electric jolt up my leg. "This whole 'meditation protest' was a flop. No one came except us Earth Defenders."

"Newsflash: We are people too, you know," I retort, shifting away from his unintentional touch. It's like dodging lightning—thrilling, but dangerous. "And since when did you become Mr. Pessimism? I thought you'd be all about the spiritual solidarity."

River rolls his eyes, the grass crunching under him as he leans back on his palms. "Solidarity doesn't bulldoze bulldozers, Willow. We're gonna need more than good vibes to stop Sinclair Shipping from turning this place into a concrete wasteland."

"Right," I say, sarcasm thick as the hemp bracelets on my wrist. "Because confrontation and violence have worked so well in the past." Sometimes I wonder how I still manage to harbor feelings for River when our views have become so misaligned.

"Better than sitting and humming," he counters quickly, and for a moment, there's a flash of something intense in his gaze. It's gone before I can name it, like a shooting star you're never quite sure was real.

"Maybe," I concede, "but sometimes, you need to be still to understand how to move forward." My words hang between us, and I wonder if they're more for me than for him. The truth is, I don't have all the answers, just a stubborn hope that refuses to be paved over.

River stretches his legs out, mirroring the expanse of sky above us. "We better figure it out fast," he says, and there's no missing the urgency in his voice. "Tomorrow, those machines come, and they won’t stop for peaceful intentions."

"Then we'll think of something," I reply, my tone lighter than I feel. "We always do."

"Hope you’re right," he murmurs.

I fiddle with a blade of grass, tearing it into tiny shreds as River plants himself firmly in my line of sight. His green eyes are like twin beacons, fierce with that firebrand intensity that always sets my nerves alight.

"Seriously, Willow," he starts, arms crossed over his chest as if to barricade himself from any contradiction. "This? It's not enough. We need the masses, the media frenzy, the whole shebang."

I toss the grass aside, meeting his gaze head-on. "It's not about drawing a crowd, River," I say, my voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest. "It's about preparing ourselves, aligning our energies for the battle ahead."

He snorts, the sound cutting through the serene silence that lingers after our meditation.

"You sound like them. Those corporate suits who think a flashy campaign is all it takes to win a war," I say.

"And you sound like someone who's forgotten why we're really here." There's a flash of something—frustration, maybe—in his eyes before he turns away, raking a hand through his choppy hair. "Why did you even bother leaving your golden throne if you're not going to fight with everything you've got?"

"Low blow, Riv," I mutter, feeling a familiar ache at the mention of the life I left behind—a world of wealth and cold indifference. "You know that's not fair."

"Truth hurts," he retorts without missing a beat, his back still to me.

"Sometimes," I concede, knowing full well the barb is meant to incite action, not wound. But deep down, his words echo my own fears. Have I really changed? Or am I just playing at rebellion?

River glances over his shoulder, his expression softened by a hint of remorse—or is it empathy? Hard to tell with him. "We need to do more, Willow. They won't stop for quiet defiance."

"Then we'll find another way," I reply, my resolve hardening. "A way that doesn't compromise who we are."

"Who we are," he echoes, turning to face me fully now. The setting sun catches in his eyes, lighting them up with a fiery determination that's impossible to ignore. "We're fighters, Willow. Don't forget that."

"Never have," I say, standing up and dusting off my hands. "But there's fighting smart, and there's fighting loud. I prefer the first."

"Smart doesn’t always get noticed," he counters, stepping closer.

My heart pulses a rhythm that's too quick for comfort. "So, what's your grand plan then?" I ask, crossing my arms in front of me.

River runs his fingers through his hair, an exasperated sigh escaping him. "I don't know, Willow, but we can't just sit here and chant Oms while they bulldoze our sanctuary."

"Sanctuary," I repeat, letting the word hang between us. His use of 'our' isn't lost on me either. The tree we've been circling with our intentions and hopes stands tall against the twilight sky, its branches stretching out like arms ready to defend itself—if only it could.

"Tomorrow morning," he continues, his voice low but fierce, "they're bringing machines to tear this place apart, starting with that." He nods toward the tree.

"Over my dead body," I mutter, more to the tree than to River. But he hears me, of course.

River smirks, stepping into my space. "Oh yeah? And how are you going to stop it, Harper? Gonna throw yourself in front of the bulldozers?"

"No," I shoot back defiantly, though I haven't ruled it out completely. "I'll think of something... something that doesn’t involve broken bones or getting carted off to jail. Maybe we can do another silent protest, like we did today."

He studies me for a moment, skeptical.

I tap a rhythmless beat on my knee, watching River pace back and forth before me like a caged storm. The colorful streak in his black hair almost glows in the dying light, a beacon of his frustration.

"Look, Willow," he starts, stopping mid-stride to lock eyes with me, "we're basically Lorax apprentices here, minus the fuzzy orange mustache and whimsical rhymes. We've got to speak for the trees because clearly, no one else will."

"River," I counter, my voice dripping with skepticism, "The Lorax is a fictional character. Unless Dr. Seuss's ghost decides to pen a sequel where he teams up with activists, we're on our own."

"Exactly, we're on our own!" His hands slice through the air as if swatting invisible foes. "And the National Forest Service? They're just puppets dangling from the strings of Sinclair's wallet."

"Marionettes of corruption, how poetic," I quip, though the weight of his words anchors itself inside me.

"Willow," he steps closer, eyes blazing with the fire of a thousand protests, "doing a silent protest isn't speaking for the trees. It's just... silence."

"River, I'm not about to stoop to their level." My voice is firm, even as I feel the flutter of uncertainty within it. "We can't fight dirty tactics with more dirt. We'd be no better than them."

His face twists, the muscles working overtime to convey his anger. "It's not 'stooping' to stand up for what we believe in! It's called taking action!"

"Action, sure," I say, standing to meet him eye to eye, "but not at the cost of becoming what we despise."

He scoffs, shaking his head as if to clear away my words like cobwebs. "This is bigger than us, Willow. Bigger than your ideals of purity in protest."

"Maybe so, but I have to believe there's a way to win this without compromising who we are."

With a snort that could rival any bull, River pivots on his heel and storms off, leaving me alone with the ghosts of our argument swirling around me. My heart feels like it's caught in rip currents, pulled between the shores of attraction and the undertow of conflict.

"Great," I mutter to myself, staring after him, "Now I'm getting poetic." But beneath the sarcasm, a resolve begins to crystallize. No matter the odds or the opposition, I won't let that tree fall. Not on my watch.