Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 9Lawrence

Chapter Nine

Lawrence

I don't even glance in the direction of my office as I leave that tree-hugging circus behind. The allure of Greenwood Hollow's rustic postcard charm is lost on me, but I've got to admit, some savvy souls have figured out there's gold in them hills. Mountain real estate gold, to be exact. So, I find myself trudging back to my current abode—a rental that costs more per month than most folks' yearly salary—because when it comes to escaping the simple life fanfare, I spare no expense.

As I step through the door of the mountain home I've temporarily claimed as mine, it's clear someone had a field day with an architectural magazine and an unlimited budget. The place is a behemoth of modern design, all sharp angles and vast spaces, like living inside a piece of abstract art. Large glass panels stretch from floor to ceiling, offering a view that's supposed to make your heart do somersaults—endless rolling hills dipping and rising, a kaleidoscope of greens and browns, with the sun playing peekaboo behind the peaks.

"Pretty," I mutter begrudgingly, because while I'm not here to join the local chapter of nature enthusiasts, I can appreciate a good sunset when it's framed just right. It doesn't mean I'm going soft; just that I know how to enjoy the finer things in life. Like this mansion in the mountains—my temporary fortress of solitude, shielding me from small-town gossip and giving me room to breathe. Well, as long as the air isn't too thick with the smell of pine needles and misplaced idealism.

Smirking at my own cynicism, I saunter deeper into my rental retreat, ready to shake off the absurdity of the day.

I stride over to the wet bar, the clink of bottles greeting me like an old friend. A quick scan, and I settle on a bourbon that looks expensive enough to forget my troubles—or at least make them blurry around the edges. Glass in hand, I turn toward the floor-to-ceiling windows just as the sun decides to put on its final evening show. The fading light drapes the trees in golds and ambers, a display so stunning even a hardened city-slicker like me can’t help but pause.

"Drink up," I toast to the forest, "because tomorrow we start the countdown to your timber-tastic transformation." I take a swig, letting the liquid heat trickle down my throat. The quiet presses in, the kind of silence that makes you realize just how alone you are. But it's a familiar feeling, one I’ve learned to live with. Loneliness has always been a part of the deal—nature of the beast in my world. I’m not immune to the beauty surrounding me, but sentiment doesn’t pay the bills. I push the ache in my chest down, where it belongs. Nature has its price, and I’m here to collect.

The grit of the outdoors clings to me. I shake my head, the bourbon making warm patterns in my stomach, and decide it's time to wash away the grime of nature. Up the stairs I go, each step taking me further from the world outside and closer to my own lavish haven.

I'm not above a little self-pampering and this bathroom was made for it. The marble tiles are cool underfoot, which feels good against the warmth still lingering on my skin from the day's sun. Chrome fixtures wink at me from every corner, and the freestanding tub looks like it could double as a small swimming pool. But it’s the shower that calls my name—a glass enclosure, rainforest showerhead promising a deluge fit for a king. Or, you know, a ruthless businessman with a knack for ruffling feathers.

As I step in, the first drops of water are a shock to the system, quickly giving way to soothing rivulets. Midway between contemplating whether I need a loofah in my life and the exact temperature at which water becomes too hot, my phone starts its insistent ding from the pocket of my discarded pants. Of course. Can't even take a shower without the world demanding a piece of Lawrence Sinclair.

I snatch the device before the screen gets fogged up. Balancing it on the edge of the shower bench, I watch as notifications pop up, safe from the spray. I swipe through, half-expecting some new crisis or scandal. Instead, it's just the usual suspects, probably wondering if I've been run out of town by the locals yet.

Roman

Tree-hugger takedown, Sinclair-style!

The text from Roman Kingsley appears first, grinning emoji and all.

I roll my eyes but can't suppress a smirk as the water cascades down, washing off the remnants of the day's confrontation. Leave it to Roman, with his shaggy blond hair that never seems combed and his wardrobe that looks like he raided a thrift store in the dark, to turn my standoff into comedy gold. Classic Roman—can always count on him for levity, no matter the situation.

Sebastian

Did you give her the 'Sinclair scowl' or the 'Boardroom glare'?

Sebastian Quin chimes in now, his words a precise jab, just like everything else about him—from his meticulously styled black hair to his minimalist, almost futuristic fashion sense. Always the analyst, Seb would rather dissect my facial expressions than discuss the real issue at hand.

Lawrence

Neither.

I reserve those for board meetings and persistent salespeople.

Victor Stone's message pops up next, his blue eyes probably narrowing.

Victor

Sure she wasn't swayed by your charm offensive, Larry?

His tone is even, measured, a rock amidst our chaotic foursome of foster brothers who once shared bunk beds and dreams of getting out of the system.

Lawrence

Charm is for clients and dates, Vic. Not eco-warriors perched in trees.

And don't call me Larry. You know I hate that nickname.

I can practically hear Victor's dry chuckle through the screen.

The three of them, my unlikely brothers, know every play in my book. We'd all been dealt a rough hand early on, shuffled from one foster home to another until fate landed us together. From there, we clawed our way up, determined not to let our past define us. Boston was our proving ground; Giovanni Maldonado's empire, our training arena. And when the old man decided Miami's sun was more appealing than Boston's blizzards, we each snagged a piece of the pie and never looked back.

Roman

Sinclair's going soft, protecting Mother Nature now?

Roman teases further, and I can feel the grin on his face as if he's right here in this bathroom instead of wherever his latest impulse has taken him.

Lawrence

Only thing I'm protecting is my investment.

And my sanity.

Sebastian

Good luck with the latter.

Lawrence

Ha. Ha.

The sarcasm drips heavier than the water from the showerhead. But despite their ribbing, a hint of warmth spreads through me. These guys are my family, the ones who've seen me at my worst and still stuck around. They might drive me insane, but they're also the only ones I trust to have my back. Always.

Steam billows around me as I step out of the shower, droplets cascading from my skin to mingle with the plush carpet of the bedroom. Crisp mountain air slips through the slightly ajar window. Towel secured firmly around my waist, I pad across the room, leaving damp footprints in my wake.

Snatching up my phone, the screen lights up with another barrage of messages, each one a playful jab aimed right at my ego. Roman's latest quip catches my eye, his words dancing with that reckless glee he carries like a badge of honor.

Roman

Did the tree hugger tie you up in organic hemp ropes?

Lawrence

I wouldn't be against a little eco-Fifty Shades.

My thumb hovers over the send button before I tap it with a satisfied smirk.

Roman

Instead of the 'red room' it's the 'green room.'

I snort out a laugh.

Victor

Seriously though.

What's your game plan with the Earth Defenders?

Sebastian

Is this where we suggest environmentally friendly straws as peace offerings?

Roman, predictably, goes for the fantastical.

Roman

Maybe they're all related to Captain Planet.

You should try taking their rings away. That'll show 'em.

Lawrence

Wouldn't surprise me if they tried summoning him.

I chuckle under my breath, imagining the scene—colors of earth and fire clashing against the steel backdrop of my construction site.

Lawrence

Captain Planet's got nothing on me.

I have something far more powerful than heart-shaped rings—lawyers and contracts.

Roman

Ooh, scary. ??????

They're shaking in their vegan boots.

Lawrence

Those boots are probably compostable, too.

Don't worry, I'll tread lightly.

Sebastian

Please, Larry, when have you ever tread lightly?

Lawrence

Never.

But there's a first time for everything.

And don't call me Larry!

Roman

Sure, and maybe I'll cook a five-star meal without burning down the kitchen.

The absurdity of his statement is mirrored only by his culinary disasters. It's still a mystery to me how he successfully runs restaurant franchises.

Lawrence

Stick to takeout, Roman.

I grin at the thought of his last attempt—an inedible concoction that even the raccoons turned their noses up at.

I flick on the TV with a sense of smug confidence.

Lawrence

You guys should see the coverage

it's like I'm the hero of Greenwood Hollow

The words roll off my tongue—or thumb, rather—flavored with the arrogance that comes easy when I'm riding high on public approval.

Victor

Man, you must be watching some other channel.

The skepticism in his text is as clear as if he's speaking right next to me.

Sebastian

Turn on the news

Lawrence

Fine.

I grumble, punching the remote with more force than necessary. The screen blurs for a moment before settling on the local news. A knot forms in my stomach as I watch the anchor—her expression stern—launch into a tirade about the heartless executive heartlessly threatening the local ecosystem. Me. Heartless.

Lawrence

Are they seriously spinning this like I'm some mustache-twirling villain tying damsels to railroad tracks?

I’m incredulous as snippets of the broadcast filter through. The images on the screen show me, mid-confrontation with Willow, the anger in my stance edited into something almost sinister.

Roman

Whoa, Larry, cool your jets

Remember what happened last time you lost it on national TV?

Victor

Your face was a meme for weeks, bro.

Lawrence

Not helping, Vic.

The media’s twisting things.

Again.

Sebastian

Looks like they're painting you as the Big Bad Wolf huffing and puffing.

Not exactly the knight in shining armor bit you were going for.

"Shut it, Seb," I mutter, but the damage is done. My image, carefully cultivated through expensive suits and charming smiles, is being shredded in high-definition.

Lawrence

Gotta bounce. Time to rally the PR knights and storm the fortress of public opinion.

Victor

Good luck!

Roman

Save the forest, save the world

Roman rounds off, his humor never failing to make the weight on my shoulders feel just a little bit lighter.

Sebastian

Keep calm and schmooze on ??

"Idiots," I mutter with an affectionate roll of my eyes, tossing the phone onto the bed. But even as I do, I can't help but feel grateful for these guys—for their relentless humor, their unwavering support, and the odd sense of normalcy they bring to my tumultuous life.

With one last glance at the damning report flickering on the TV, I switch it off, the screen going dark like my mood. It's time to play the game—charming, cunning Lawrence Sinclair in action. Because if there's one thing I know how to do, it's spin a story, and this narrative needs a new hero.