Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 8Lawrence

Chapter Eight

Lawrence

Present

I’m already mid-sigh when Emily bursts into my office, her eyes wide with the sort of news that no amount of caffeine can prep you for. I shoot up a hand, cutting off whatever alarm she's about to blare. "Hold it," I mutter, snagging my phone from the desk.

I tap into the live feed, and there it is, splashed across my screen like some avant-garde painting in an exhibit called 'Corporate Nightmares.' It's almost too perfect, really. Today’s supposed to be the big day—break ground on the new pipeline site, Greenwood Hollow's ticket to the future, yadda yadda. Just some good old-fashioned tree-clearing, nothing to make headlines over. Except now, thanks to Willow Harper, it's breaking news all right.

And speak of the devil—there she is, perched defiantly in this majestic oak like some sort of modern-day dryad. Chains glitter around her wrists and loop lazily around one of the branches, as if she's accessorizing for a protest-themed photoshoot. She’s made herself the centerpiece of a spectacle designed to throw a wrench into my meticulously scheduled day.

"Of course, she's up a tree," I grumble under my breath, shaking my head at the audacity. I mean, talk about commitment to a cause—Willow’s turned activism into performance art.

"Lawrence, do you—" Emily begins, but I wave her off again, transfixed by the scene unfolding on my palm-sized window to the world.

"Shhh," I say, not taking my eyes off the screen, "I'm savoring the moment." My tone is all sarcasm because if I don't laugh at the absurdity of it all, I might just start tearing out my hair.

"Shouldn't we—" Emily tries once more, but I'm lost in thought.

"Strategy later," I reply absently. Right now, I need to witness every second of this impromptu tree-hugging festival. Besides, how often does one get to see their corporate plans thwarted by a lone environmentalist anchored to an oak like she's the last pirate on a sinking ship? But hey, I’ll give her points for creativity. Not many can claim they've shut down a multimillion-dollar project with nothing but a pair of chains and sheer stubbornness.

Keys clink in my hand as I surge toward the door, Emily's voice trailing behind me like an afterthought. "Lawrence, wait! What's the plan?" she calls out, but her words are just background noise against the drumming of anticipation in my veins.

"Plan? Who needs a plan when you've got a live show?" I toss back over my shoulder, barely slowing my stride. The thrill of the unexpected lights a fire in my chest, and I'm all too eager to fan the flames.

I hit the exit with purpose. It's not every day you get to play knight in shining armor to your own damsel in distress—even if she is the one putting your business plans on hold.

The heavy door thuds shut behind me, sealing away Emily's protests and the sterile chill of the air-conditioned office. Outside, the sun glares down, unforgiving, as if it knows exactly where I need to be—and it isn't here negotiating corporate strategies.

A smirk plays on my lips as I slip into the driver's seat of my behemoth of a car—the black Defender that screams excess with every purr of its engine. It's the kind of vehicle that would make any tree-hugger weep, and I can't deny there's a twisted satisfaction in that.

Pulling out onto the street, I let the lull of the engine settle into my bones. Today’s going to be interesting, that's for sure. A showdown with Greenwood Hollow's most passionate protector? Not exactly what I'd penciled into my calendar, but hell, spontaneity has always been more my style anyway.

The phone's tinny speakers struggle under the strain of the live stream's volume as I weave my way through Greenwood Hollow.

"…seems to be no sign of backing down from the Earth Defenders," the journalist is saying, and then—cue the theatrics—a chorus of chants rises up like some kind of grassroots symphony. "Save our trees, save our souls!" they yell, and I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck.

Despite my annoyance, I can’t help but toss a glance at the screen where Willow's aqua-green hair makes her look more like a mermaid perched in an oak tree than a protester. The journalist shoves the microphone upwards, futilely attempting to catch her silent proclamation from her arboreal soapbox. It's all a bit ridiculous; she's too far up for any sound to travel down to the eager masses below.

But Willow just sits there, a serene fixture amidst the chaos. If this were anyone else's circus, I'd be in stitches by now. But no, it's my circus, complete with my very own environmentalist clown. Only, she's not juggling balls—she's juggling public opinion against me.

Come to think of it, I'd much rather her be juggling balls—mine in particular.

As the Defender rolls closer to the site of today's unintended entertainment, the journalist keeps jabbering away, his words blending with the chants and the occasional car horn from the traffic that's starting to bottleneck thanks to the spectacle.

I sigh, the lightheartedness of the situation warring with the gnawing realization that this stunt will mean overtime for my PR team. And there's nothing funny about that.

The engine cuts out with a purr, and I'm already bracing for the onslaught of questions as my loafers hit the gravel at the site. There's a palpable energy in the air, electric with controversy and camera flashes. I squint against the intrusive lenses and mentally place bets on whether River's lurking somewhere, orchestrating this circus from the shadows.

This whole event definitely feels more "River Rapids" than "Weeping Willow."

"Mr. Sinclair, can you comment on—" a journalist begins, but I brush past him without missing a beat.

"Beautiful day for a protest, isn't it?" I quip, offering up a non-answer with a grin. My strides are confident, purposeful, each step a practiced move in this environmental chess game.

"Will this affect your project timeline?" another tries, thrusting a mic in my general direction.

"Mother Nature and I are just working out some creative differences," I shoot back, my gaze fixed ahead as I navigate through the sea of reporters like a ship cutting through choppy waters.

And then, there she is. Willow Harper, perched high above us mere mortals, her aqua-green hair a banner of defiance against the rugged backdrop of Greenwood Hollow's ancient oak. She could be a figure straight out of a fairy tale—if fairies wore hemp and chained themselves to trees. Her clothing, no doubt hand-stitched by some local artisan, billows slightly in the gentle breeze, the fabric whispering secrets of far-off lands she's trodden in her nomadic quest to save the planet.

"Willow! Looking a bit... tied up at the moment, aren’t we?" I call out, knowing full well she won't deign to answer. She only stares down at me, those green eyes unblinking, as if challenging me to understand her silent vigil. It's almost endearing how she clings to that branch, a stubborn sprite safeguarding her forest realm.

"Should I bring you a ladder, or are you planning to make that tree your permanent home?" I say louder this time, though it's more for the benefit of the cameras than any real expectation of dialogue.

A smirk plays on my lips, but deep down, I have to admit—this is the most fun I've had in weeks. The thrill of the unexpected, the challenge of facing off with an opponent who's just as headstrong as I am. It's invigorating.

No answer comes, just a defiant silence that hangs heavier than the chains around her wrists.

"Silent protest, huh?" I remark to no one in particular, rolling my eyes at the absurdity of it all. The journalist next to me nods, eager for a sound bite. "Willow, you've got sixty seconds to get out of that tree, or else."

"Or else what?" the journalist presses, shoving a microphone closer like it's a weapon.

I just shoot him a look and turn away, leaving him stewing in his own curiosity.

Striding over to where the workers are gathered, I spot a chainsaw in the hands of a burly guy who looks as confused as a puppy in a thunderstorm. "Give it here," I demand, snapping my fingers at him. He hesitates, obviously not briefed on the possibility of an executive doing manual labor today.

"Chainsaw. Now," I clarify, my impatience leaking into my tone. Reluctantly, he passes it over, the heavy machinery feeling foreign in my hands.

"Watch and learn, boys," I say with a dramatic flair, flipping the switch and feeling the machine roar to life. It vibrates with a ferocity that mirrors my determination—or is it desperation? I'm not sure anymore.

I make my way to the base of the tree, each stride a show for the cameras that have turned their greedy lenses on me. Willow's gaze drills into mine from above, and I can see it—the fear. She's probably convinced I'm crazy enough to saw through the trunk, toppling both the oak and her in a grandiose display of corporate power.

"Time's ticking, Harper," I call out, the chainsaw's growl punctuating my words. Her eyes, two emerald flames in a face that's usually so calm, betray her thoughts. She's weighing her options, calculating the risks. But then again, so am I.

The chainsaw hums in my grip, a beast awaiting my command, and I feel the rush of an unspoken challenge between us. Who will back down first? The eco-warrior perched in her makeshift fortress, or the suit with a power tool and zero intention of becoming a lumberjack today?

"Come on, Willow. Don't make me do something we'll both regret," I think to myself, hoping she'll sense reason before the clock runs out.

"Ten," I start, voice booming over the sudden hush that blankets the crowd. The chainsaw buzzes in my hands, a cantankerous growl that seems eager to chew through the ancient bark.

"Nine." My heart thumps, an awkward drum solo against my ribcage.

"Eight." A woodpecker’s distant tapping is now the only competition to the chainsaw's din. Even the wind holds its breath, the pine-scented air stagnant and heavy around us.

"Seven." Willow's aqua-green hair sways as she shifts her weight in the tree, the hand-dyed hemp of her clothing blending with the leaves. She's a natural up there, a wild sprite defending her domain.

"Six." I can feel every gaze upon me—accusatory, pleading, expectant. It's like standing center stage at a twisted play where I've forgotten all my lines.

"Five." The chain vibrates against the trunk, a metallic kiss promising destruction. I'm not cut out for the role of villain—I can't even handle paper cuts gracefully.

"Four." Sweat beads on my forehead, and I wonder if it's from the exertion or the sheer absurdity of the situation. Who needs the gym when you've got eco standoffs for a workout?

"Three." My arm starts to numb from the chainsaw's relentless shaking, a reminder of why I sit behind a desk making calls and not felling trees.

"Two." Willow’s eyes, usually so calm, are wide and shimmering with unshed tears. Green orbs that could rival the heart of the forest itself. Is she considering letting me play the executioner?

"One." The word is barely out before her scream pierces the air, halting everything. "STOP!" And I do, the relief flooding through me like a dam burst.

The chainsaw dies in my grasp, silenced by a single plea from the girl in the branches. Willow Harper, Earth Defender and professional thorn in my side, is descending. Her movements are less graceful now, more desperate scramble than serene glide. As her feet touch the ground, the police are upon her, handcuffs glinting in the sun.

"Sorry," I say, shrugging as I hand the chainsaw back to the worker. "But I called you in for trespassing." It's true, but the words taste like ash on my tongue.

Willow doesn’t utter a sound as they guide her away, but those teary green eyes lock onto mine, and it's like she's shouting without saying a word. There's an ache in my chest, an unfamiliar twist in the pit of my stomach. What is this? Guilt? Regret? No, it can't be.

I shove the feelings aside, bury them under layers of sarcasm and self-assurance. Still, something lingers, a whisper of doubt that wasn't there before—a crack in my armor, courtesy of one weeping Willow.

Turning to face the horde of vultures—sorry, journalists—I brace myself for the onslaught of questions. "So, what's the game plan now, huh? You still gonna chop down our dear friend, the oak?"

I stifle a yawn, feigning a stretch. "You know, it's been one heck of a day. And yeah, apparently this tree is the Groot to their Guardians of the Galaxy, so we're taking a time-out." I throw in a wink for good measure. "Let's see if we can't hash out a truce with the green brigade."

Nods and murmurs ripple through the press like they've just witnessed some miracle of diplomacy. If only they knew.

"Are you considering alternative sites for the pipeline?" another reporter fires off.

"Whoa, whoa, let's not get ahead of ourselves," I chuckle, backing away. "One eco-crisis at a time."

My loafers crunch against the gravel as I stroll to my gas-guzzling chariot, feeling the gazes of the crowd on me like I'm some kind of eco-savior. Ha! The irony.

Before I can slip into the driver's seat and escape, my phone buzzes. It's Emily. "Well played" is the first thing she says when I answer, her voice a smooth purr of satisfaction. She always did have a knack for making even bad news sound like a Grammy acceptance speech.

"Wasn't my first rodeo," I reply, slumping into the leather seat with a smirk. "And hey, look at that, maybe I've got a heart after all, right?"

She laughs, that controlled, melodic sound. "Are you going ahead with the tree removal later?" There's a hint of something in her voice, like she's testing the waters.

"Absolutely," I start confidently, but then the image of Willow's aqua-green hair and those tear-streaked cheeks flashes before my eyes. My throat tightens. I hate it when my conscience decides to crash the party. "But..." I trail off, unsure why I'm hesitating.

"Something on your mind?" Emily's voice pulls me back, laced with curiosity.

"Ah, nothing," I shake my head, forcing the uncertainty down where it belongs. "Just thinking about the optics.”

"Of course," she replies, though I can tell she's smirking on the other end. "Keep me posted."

"Will do," I say, ending the call. I sit there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the dashboard as the sounds of the dispersing crowd fade. Great, now I'm getting sentimental over trees and protestor puppy eyes. Get it together.

With a grunt, I press "Start" on the ignition, the engine roaring to life, drowning out the whispers of doubt. Time to get back to civilization; there's a cold drink with my name on it waiting somewhere, and definitely not a single leafy oak tree in sight.