Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 15Willow

Chapter Fifteen

Willow

Present

I blink the sleep from my eyes and squint at the sunlight peeking through unfamiliar curtains. Where the heck am I? Oh, right. The room comes into sharper focus as memories of the previous day's disastrous negotiations with Lawrence Sinclair flood in.

A fake fiancée to a guy whose smile is all teeth and no warmth—what have I gotten myself into?

Dragging myself out of bed, I rummage through my duffle bag. Who knew this would be my life: a handful of possessions that could fit into a bag I've had since high school. Most people hoard things like squirrels with nuts, but not me. Give me my faded jeans, an upcycled t-shirt, and my trusty combat boots, and I'm good to go.

Most people live in entirely too much excess. If they actually took stock of what they needed on a daily basis, it would be about five things. "Less is more," I mutter to myself, pulling on my handmade sweater. It's got more holes than Swiss cheese, but each one is a story, a battle scar from protests and rallies. Who needs cashmere when you've got character?

Making my way downstairs, I roll my eyes. I'm about to enter the lair of the impeccably dressed dragon. I bet Larry's never worn a shirt that wasn't starched within an inch of its life. I adjust my sweater defiantly; let him try to criticize my eco-chic aesthetic.

Each step creaks underfoot, a symphony of old wood and new beginnings—or maybe just a prelude to another argument. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that idealism doesn't fill bellies.

I make it downstairs to where Larry is sitting in the kitchen. Sunlight streams through the windows, throwing patterns of light and shadow across the polished marble floor. It's too bright, too cheerful for a place that feels more like a gilded cage than a home.

"Morning," I mutter, barely glancing at Larry, who's perched at the head of the table like some kind of corporate king on his throne. He looks up from his newspaper, his hazel eyes briefly locking with mine, and there's that flash of arrogance that sets my teeth on edge.

"Good morning," he says, his voice smooth as silk, betraying none of the tension that crackles between us like static. "Coffee's ready, and feel free to help yourself to breakfast." He gestures vaguely toward the gleaming stainless steel fridge, his cufflinks catching the light and winking at me mockingly. "There's charcuterie in the fridge."

"Thanks, but I'll pass on the animal remains," I say, lifting an eyebrow as I lean against the counter, arms crossed. I don't need to open that fridge to know it's a charnel house of cold cuts and cheeses—all things I haven't touched since I decided eating anything with a face or a mother was off the table.

Larry's polished exterior doesn't crack, but I notice the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "That's unfortunate," he replies, folding his newspaper with a crisp snap.

"I'm doing just fine without contributing to the demise of our planet, thank you very much."

He stands then, all six-plus feet of exasperating, well-tailored annoyance, and I have to remind myself that this is a means to an end. Fake dating the enemy is no walk in the park, especially when he's the embodiment of everything you're fighting against.

"I'm heading to the office," he informs me, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with an infuriating sense of self-importance. I watch him march to the door, every step reeking of privilege and power.

But then he pauses, hand on the doorknob, and turns slightly. "And just so you know," he adds, a flicker of something—irritation?—crossing his features, "you'll be fitted for a new wardrobe today. Feel free to put those rags you're wearing aside so they can be thrown out."

He says it like he's gifting me a Caribbean cruise, not stripping away pieces of my identity. I cross my arms, feeling the weight of each stitch and patch in my handmade clothes like armor against his polished arrogance.

"Fine," I concede with a snort, "play dress-up with me if that makes you happy. But these 'rags' are off-limits." I gesture to my outfit, protective. "They're staying."

Larry's eyes harden, the hazel color sharp as flint. "They're rags, Willow. Hardly suitable for someone in your new... position." His voice is a blade, slicing through the pretense of civility.

I lift my chin, trying for a semblance of backbone. "This whole arrangement won't work if you steamroll over me like I'm one of your business deals," I shoot back, my voice laced with defiance.

But Larry isn’t having any of it. His temper, quick as wildfire, ignites before I can fan the flames of argument further. "It will work," he insists, his tone brooking no argument. "You just need to follow my lead. Listen and do as I say." His eyes are two molten pools of hazel.

"Your highness might have forgotten, but I didn't sign up for Project Runway: Jailbird Edition." I lean forward, my voice low and steady. "I'll wear your dresses, smile for the cameras, but my clothes aren't part of this charade. I'm keeping them."

"Charade?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it—only a challenge. "I make the rules, and if you're not comfortable with them, then maybe this arrangement isn't for you. I could always drop you back at the jail on my way to work. Give you a chance to reconsider your wardrobe from behind bars."

For a moment, the threat hangs in the air between us, and I can almost see the steam rising from his fiery red hair. But I stand my ground, meeting his gaze without flinching.

"Try me," I say, matching his intensity. "But remember, you need me just as much as I need this get-out-of-jail-free card."

We're two titans clashing in a kitchen too small for our egos, an unstoppable force and an immovable object locked in a standoff over secondhand denim.

Anger bubbles up inside me, hot and fierce, but I swallow it down. Silence, in this moment, is my chosen weapon. So, I stand there, rooted to the spot, while he struggles with the chaos I've thrown into his meticulously ordered world. He runs a hand through his vibrant red hair—a storm of frustration brewing in every strand.

"Fine," he finally grits out. "Keep the damn clothes. But, I don't want to see you wearing them."

"Thank you," I reply, my voice dripping with mock gratitude.

With another frustrated run of his hand through his perfectly combed hair, he turns on his heel and strides out, his suit whispering threats as he goes.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and glance around the kitchen—his kitchen—that now feels more like a glossy showroom than a place of warmth and sustenance. Doubts gnaw at me, chewing through my resolve. Was there another way? Could I have dodged that mandatory minimum sentence without falling into this farce?

"Maybe I could've called family..." I mutter to myself, but I immediately push the thought out of my mind. No, that bridge was burnt to ashes long ago. There's only forward now, even if it means wading through this swamp of pretense.

Shaking off the cobwebs of doubt, I approach the fridge, hoping for a distraction in the form of breakfast. The stainless-steel behemoth gleams smugly, as if it knows it's about to disappoint me. And oh, does it deliver—swing open the door and what greets me? Meat. Cheese. An entire cold-cut gallery of animal parts.

"Gross," I grumble, slamming the fridge shut a touch too hard. Who knew freedom would taste so much like preservatives and despair?

I lean against the counter, considering my options. Maybe I'll find a loaf of bread in one of these cabinets and call it a meal. Or maybe I'll just chew on my principles for sustenance. They're certainly tough enough to pass for jerky.