Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 13Willow

Chapter Thirteen

Willow

The cool mountain air nips at my cheeks as I step out of Lawrence's gas guzzling SUV—engine still purring like a smug housecat that got the cream. My gaze sweeps up the colossal mansion perched in the mountains like some supervillain's lair, and despite its grandeur, I can't help but scowl. It's stunning, sure, with its vast windows gleaming in the sunlight and ivy crawling over stone walls like nature's own graffiti, but it screams 'Lawrence Sinclair' in a way that makes my stomach churn.

"Compensating for something?" I mutter under my breath, the words dissolving into the crisp Greenwood Hollow air.

"Did you say something?" Lawrence asks, his voice smooth like honey but not nearly as sweet.

"Admiring your shrine to excess," I reply, loud enough this time, arching an eyebrow. "How lucky am I that my knight in shining arrogance returned and whisked me away to his castle."

"What a fairy tale this is shaping up to be," he grouses.

We cross the threshold, stepping into a foyer so opulent it could make a royal blush. The chandelier overhead is a monstrous tangle of crystal and gold, dangling like an overdone piece of jewelry. Polished marble floors reflect our images back at us, mocking me with how out of place I look next to Mr. Dapper-and-Dangerous himself.

"Quite the humble abode you've got here," I say, unable to resist the dig. "Bet it does wonders for the ego."

Lawrence's lips twitch, a ghost of a smile that doesn't quite reach those calculating hazel eyes of his. He leans casually against the door frame, arms folded, the picture of nonchalant arrogance.

"Feel free to compliment the architect at any time," he says, a teasing lilt to his voice that fails to mask the silent challenge there.

"Wouldn't want you to get light-headed on my account," I shoot back, casting a glance around the room that could double as a ballroom. "But if you're waiting for applause, you might turn blue first. Wouldn't that be a tragedy?"

He chuckles, a sound that rumbles through the cavernous space and stirs the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams.

"Your concern for my well-being is touching," he replies, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"Always," I retort, flashing him a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Now, shall we continue this delightful house tour, or are you planning to sell me on the charming decor all day?"

“I must admit that I am curious. Do you have a protest playlist, or is it just the sound of my plans falling apart that you enjoy?"

“Oh, I definitely have a playlist. But the sound of your frustration is my favorite track."

He closes his eyes for a second and then opens them to look straight at me. I try not to flinch away from his gaze. “Swimmingly," Lawrence drawls, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he surveys our reflection in the grand hallway mirror—him, tall and infuriatingly immaculate; me, looking like a fish dragged out of its pond and plunked into a ballroom. "That's how well you're nailing the doting fiancée act, that is."

"Oh, good, I'm glad," I say, layering on my own sarcasm thick enough to spread on toast. "I was really going for 'enchanted' with a hint of 'captivated.' Did it shine through?"

"Radiantly," he deadpans, but there's a glint in his eye that tells me he's not entirely immune to my barbs. He motions toward the sprawling living room. "Sit down, Willow. We need to have a chat about ground rules."

"Ground rules?" The words tumble out of my mouth with a feigned enthusiasm as I plop down onto a couch that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. "Fantastic! Let's discuss the environmental impact of pipelines on the soil structure, shall we? Not to mention the disruption of animal habitats?—"

"Willow." His voice cuts through my impromptu lecture, sharp as the edge of an ax.

"Fine." I cross my arms, sinking back into the cushions that swallow me whole. "Continue, by all means."

"Thank you," he says, though there's no gratitude in his tone, only a thinly veiled attempt at patience. "In public?—"

"Public," I echo, mocking the gravity he lends the word.

"—we need to make this charade believable." He stands in front of me, hands clasped behind his back like he's about to commandeer a ship rather than negotiate terms with his fake fiancée. "That means unity, cooperation... perhaps even a modicum of civility."

"Sounds delightful," I reply, aiming for nonchalant and probably hitting somewhere between bored and vaguely hostile. "Can't wait to sell my soul for appearances' sake."

"Your soul is your own concern," he says coolly, but there's a spark of something behind those steely eyes—a challenge, maybe, or just the reflection of the chandelier overhead. "But while you're wearing my ring, your behavior is my business."

He walks over to the wet bar on the other side of the room. Lawrence's back is to me as he pours two glasses of something undoubtedly expensive and aged longer than my stint with the Earth Defenders.

“I have a life outside of this deal,” I add. “Like my job at the flower shop-”

“Which has been canceled.”

I furrow my brow. “I’m sorry, did you just say it’s been canceled?”

“That’s right.” He gives me a look full of disgust. “My fiancée does not need a minimum wage job.”

“I love that job,” I begin to say.

“I also have it on good authority that you Earth Defenders use Sullivan’s shop for meetings. Your time there is done. This is non-negotiable.”

I cross my arms, intent on revisiting this subject later. He can’t keep me prisoner here. I’ll sneak out of this stupid mansion and walk all the way to Main Street if I have to.

"Public perception is key," he continues, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

"Right. Because nothing says 'genuine love' like a staged photo op." My voice drips with derision, but it doesn't faze him.

"Exactly." He nods, missing—or ignoring—the irony. "You'll need to look the part, Willow. We're having you fitted for a new wardrobe and you’ll attend etiquette training-"

"Etiquette training?" I interrupt, snorting into the glass I haven't bothered to sip. "You're joking."

He fixes me with a stare that could cut diamond. "I'm dead serious."

"Of course you are." I roll my eyes, setting the untouched drink on an end table. "Because nothing screams 'free spirit environmentalist' like a designer dress and a lesson in which fork to use for my salad."

"Salad fork. It's called a salad fork," he corrects, and I imagine using said fork to poke him in the eye.

"Listen, Larry, if you think?—"

"If you argue with me on this," he interjects, the edge in his voice sharper than any utensil, "I'll scrap this entire fa?ade and have you back behind bars before you can say 'compostable cutlery.'"

My mouth snaps shut, the retort dying on my lips. The threat hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable. I hate that he has this power over me, that my freedom is tangled up in his tailored suits and corporate machinations.

"Fine," I concede, the word tasting like vinegar as it escapes me. "What else?"

"Don't call me Larry."

I roll my eyes. "Is that all?"

"Of course not. Now, back to making this believable." He approaches, invading my space, and my spine stiffens in response. "You will behave appropriately. Hand holding, affectionate glances, the whole nine yards."

"I'm not kissing you."

His expression darkens, and it's clear he isn't amused.

"Willow, I'm not above calling your bluff." His voice is low, menacing.

"Fine," I repeat, hating how the word feels like surrender. "But don't expect me to enjoy it."

"Enjoyment isn't a prerequisite," he says dryly, then turns away, leaving me to stew in a concoction of irritation and begrudging compliance.

I eye Larry, deciding that I am definitely calling him that from now on, both in my head and to his face. It's the one bit of defiance I can hold onto, because I doubt he'll ship me back to jail just for that. At least I hope he won't.

"I don't know where you think we can meet in the middle on this," I start, voice dripping with disdain, "because I'm not here to sell my body or my soul for your little performance."

He leans back against the wet bar, an eyebrow arching with that infuriating charisma of his. "A compromise then," he suggests, the word rolling off his tongue like it's dipped in honey and vinegar at the same time.

"Compromise," I echo, letting the syllables hang between us, thick with skepticism. But deep down, I know I'm cornered. With a huff, I nod once, tight-lipped. "Let's hear it."

"Good," Lawrence says, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Hand-holding and affectionate touches and glances in public. Occasional pecks on the cheek. No kissing on the lips required."

"Way to make me feel like a hired woman."

"Oh, so you want kissing on the lips, then? It can be arranged."

Rolling my eyes, I cross my arms over my chest. "I'm good, thanks. That all works, I guess. My turn now."

He raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of his drink, but doesn't say anything.

"This house," I wave a hand around the opulent foyer, "I want a separate bedroom. There's no way I'm sharing a space with you."

"Agreed," he replies quicker than I expect, "but on the off chance we have company, we'll need to maintain appearances." He pauses, watching me closely. "We'll share a room then—just for show."

"Fine," I relent, "but let's be clear: my boundary is that no company ever comes here." I punctuate the statement with a pointed look, daring him to challenge it.

To my surprise, a genuine laugh escapes him, rich and deep, and for a split second, the tension in the room dissipates. Our eyes lock, and there's a flicker of something unspoken—an understanding, maybe, or mutual exasperation.

"I like the way you bargain," he says.

"Alright, Larry," I quip, testing the waters with a smirk.

His laughter cuts off abruptly, and his eyes darken like storm clouds rolling over the mountainside. "I told you not to call me that," he warns, the playful moment vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

"Sure thing, Larry," I repeat, unable to resist poking the bear just a little more. The name seems to strip away the layers of his poised facade. It's probably why I like it. Even though it brings out his temper, it makes him seem more real. More human.

Larry's jaw clenches, but he bites back whatever retort is simmering on his tongue. Instead, he shakes his head, a reluctant grin pulling at his lips despite himself. It's clear this charade is going to be a battle of wills—his ironclad control against my unyielding defiance.

I can't wait.