Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 10Lawrence

Chapter Ten

Lawrence

I jab at the screen of my phone, the glow harsh against the shadows of my bedroom. It's late, or early, depending on how you look at it, but that's never stopped me before. The call connects, and I press the device to my ear, already pacing the edge of my bed.

"Emily Carter," her voice is crisp, like she's been awake for hours, not roused from sleep by a demanding boss.

"Hey, sorry to wake you, but then again, not really." My voice is smooth despite the hour, a smirk playing on my lips. "After all, I pay you enough to answer my calls whenever."

Her chuckle crackles through the line, unfazed. "That's fair, Lawrence. What's so urgent?"

"Have you seen the latest news circus?" I ask, flopping back onto the bed. The ceiling seems to spin with the weight of public opinion pressing down on me.

"About your... eventful protest appearance?" There's an edge of humor in her voice that tells me she's seen it all right.

"Exactly. So, what's the grand plan to fix this mess?" I prop myself up on an elbow, waiting for her salvation spiel.

There's a momentary pause, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her head. "Honestly, I'm not sure what we can do about this one," she admits, and I can tell it's killing her to say it.

"Wrong answer." I let out a low growl. "You're supposed to be the miracle worker. Try again."

"Lawrence," she chides, and I can picture her rubbing the bridge of her nose, "these things take time to strategize."

"Time is a luxury we don't have." I throw an arm over my eyes, feeling the frustration bubble.

I toss my phone from one hand to the other, getting up to pace the length of my darkened office. The moonlight filtering through the blinds casts long shadows on the floor, like prison bars that trap me in this mess.

"Lawrence, listen. We're fighting an uphill battle here." She pauses, and I can almost hear her weighing her next words. "And you showing up at the peaceful protest holding a chainsaw might not have been the best idea."

"Come on, Em," I scoff, throwing myself back down onto the bed. "You were congratulatory for how I handled things just hours ago."

"I said what I needed to say because you pay me a lot of money," she counters, her tone flat, "and you seemed quite pleased with yourself. Until the media frenzy, there was no reason to burst your bubble."

The air hisses out of me. "So now I'm the bad guy for defending my property?" I ask, though I know the answer.

"Look, I get it," she says, a hint of steel entering her voice. "But let's be real—brandishing a chainsaw isn't exactly the image we want. You're supposed to be the charismatic leader, not a horror movie villain."

"Fine," I grumble, staring up at the ceiling. "Then work your PR voodoo, Em. What's the grand plan to spin this?"

Emily's quiet for a moment. "Well, I do have one idea, but..." She hesitates, and I sit up, alert. "There's no easy way out of this, and I don't think you're going to like it."

"Spit it out." I'm growing impatient.

"You need to drop the charges against Willow Harper," she finally says.

My temper flares, hot and swift. "You're right, I don't like it." My voice is a growl now, low and dangerous. "She trespassed. She broke the law."

"Maybe so," Emily replies coolly, unfazed by my outburst. "But right now, you're the one looking like the villain. We need to change the narrative. Dropping the charges is the first step."

I grit my teeth. "So, basically, I'm the Big Bad Wolf for wanting to protect my property?" I can't keep the sarcasm from dripping off every syllable.

"Metaphorically speaking," Emily's voice crackles through the speakerphone, "they've got the pitchforks and torches ready. Figuratively."

"Fantastic. Fine, I'll drop the charges." I toss the clicker onto the dresser, watching it clatter against the glass surface. "But I don’t have to smile while doing it."

"Of course not," she replies, that 'I've got another bomb to drop' tone creeping into her voice. "But that's not the part you're going to hate."

"Hit me with it." I brace myself, as if her words are going to physically fly out of the phone and smack me in the face. "What could possibly be worse than playing nice with the eco-warrior princess?"

"We leverage this situation. Use it to get Willow Harper to stop being such a thorn in our side." I can practically hear her tapping a finger against her chin, plotting.

"Right, because she's just going to pack up her tie-dye shirts and drift off into the sunset because I say 'pretty please.'" I roll my eyes at the ceiling.

"Or," I continue, "her pal River takes over, and trust me, that guy doesn't do peaceful. He's one step away from chaining himself to a bulldozer."

"Exactly," Emily confirms. "We can't risk that. It's better to deal with the devil you know than the one who might start a riot. Which is why," she begins in a tone that suggests she's about to unveil the grand prize behind door number one, "I think we should consider an... arrangement."

"Spit it out," I snap. My gaze fixates on the embers dancing in the fireplace.

"An engagement," she declares triumphantly.

I choke on my own incredulity. "An en—what?" I sputter. "Are you trying to give me a coronary?"

"Listen," she soothes, or attempts to. "We drop the charges against Willow in exchange for a fake engagement. It's perfect. You go from 'big bad playboy' to 'reformed family man' overnight. The public eats up a love story, especially if it's wrapped in a bow of environmental consciousness."

"Emily," I say, voice laced with the sarcasm of a thousand eye rolls, "you've officially lost it. This seems a little extreme.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you, Lawrence. But unfortunately your playboy reputation mixed with your legendary temper is threatening the viability of this project.”

I find myself gritting my teeth, trying to keep said-temper in check. “This pipeline is bigger than just me. It’s going to completely change the energy grid for the better. Which means new jobs, growth, and everything that goes with it.”

“I know that,” Emily says. “But, the public doesn’t. All they see if some wannabe Bruce Wayne trying to tear up the Earth for monetary gain.”

“Okay. So, who cares what the public thinks? We’ve got all the permits and cash we need to get started. I’m tired of coddling to people.” I seriously wish I had a stress ball right now because instead I’m digging my fingers into my palms. The fact that I have the even consider public perception grates on me. It’s not like the public has ever considered me or what I wanted in life.

“Sure, Lawrence. We have the permits to break ground and the money to do it. But, this is a big project. It’s going to take years to build. There are other permits we will need further down the road. More money too.”

“Yeah? So, we’ll get that when we need it.”

“Not if the public drives a wedge into your project by then,” Emily says coolly. “Permits are granted by public servants. Public servants who will be going up for re-election by the time they need to grant our next set of approvals. If you don’t turn this narrative around, we’re going to be in trouble.”

I let out a growl, because I know what she’s going to say next.

“And if investors get wind that we’re not going to get our next set of approvals, they’ll pull all their money out and we’ll be dead in the water.”

“Fine,” I grunt. “Let’s assume that me pretending to play family man will fix all this, which is debatable. Your plans still got one little problem.”

“What’s that?” Emily asks, her tone amused.

“There's no way Willow Harper, queen of the eco-warriors, is going to say yes to marrying the enemy."

"Ah, but there's more to it than you think." Emily's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Willow's got a rap sheet of protests longer than a CVS receipt. This charge? It's her third strike. She could be facing serious jail time."

"Great, so not only do we want her to agree to this insane plan, but we're also banking on her fear of prison to seal the deal?" I ask, massaging my temples as if that could squeeze out a better solution.

"Exactly," Emily says, as if she's just explained the theory of relativity and expects me to applaud. "She might take the bait to avoid a mandatory minimum sentence."

"That's some good intel, Em," I concede begrudgingly. "But there's no way I'm parading around with a fake fiancée."

"Actually, you will," she retorts coolly, "if you want this pipeline to go through without any more hitches. Consider it damage control with a side of romance."

"Fake romance," I correct her, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Temporary," she assures me. "Once the pipeline is fully approved and funded, we can dissolve the engagement quietly. No one will be the wiser."

"Except for my pride," I mutter under my breath. The line goes quiet for a beat, and I know she's letting the idea simmer, giving me time to realize it's the only way out of this mess.

"Fine," I finally say, "I'll think about it." But who am I kidding? Emily's strategies have steered me right more times than I care to admit. Even if the thought of playing house with Willow Harper makes my blood simmer—partly from irritation, partly from something else I refuse to acknowledge.

"Good," Emily says, satisfaction lacing her tone. "Sleep on it."

"Sure," I reply, though sleep is the last thing on my mind. I hang up, the weight of this ludicrous plan settling on my shoulders like a lead cloak.

In bed, I toss and turn, my sheets twisting into knots. Anger simmers in my chest—not just at the situation but at myself for being predictably malleable under Emily's guidance. What irks me more than anything is the realization that having Willow Harper as my fake fiancée isn't entirely unappealing. The benefits are obvious: softening my public image, sidestepping jail time for her, and smoothing the path for my pipeline project.

But there won't be heart-fluttering glances or tender kisses that make you forget your own name. No, our engagement will be as empty as my penthouse on a Saturday night. And for reasons I'm not ready to dissect, that knowledge leaves a hollow ache in my chest.

"Damn it," I grumble into the darkness, my eyes fixed on the stars beyond my window. They twinkle mockingly back at me, a million little reminders of deals made and hearts left uninvolved.

The irony isn’t lost on me—I’ve spent years dodging commitment, and now here I am, contemplating a phony betrothal to a woman whose ideals clash with mine like oil and water. Yet, somewhere deep down, where I hide things even from myself, the disappointment nags at me, persistent and unsettling.

"Get a grip," I tell myself, but the silence of the room only magnifies my frustration. With a heavy sigh, I close my eyes, surrendering to the chaos of thoughts swirling in my head. Tomorrow, I’ll face the music. Tonight, I'll dream of a world where engagements mean something, and fiery green eyes don't ignite a spark in my chest.