Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 16Willow

Chapter Sixteen

Willow

I’m alone in Sinclair's fortress of a house. It’s got that polished, everything-in-its-place vibe that sets my teeth on edge. I wander the halls, pretending like I've got a right to be here, which, technically, I do. He asked me to stay, didn't he? But not for this. Not for snooping.

"Alright, let's see what skeletons Mr. High-and-Mighty's got stashed," I mutter to myself.

The door to his office creaks open under my hand. Bingo. Books line the walls—law, business, some old classics. They're all perfectly aligned, no dog-eared pages in sight. The air smells like leather and that cologne he wears—sharp, like it’s trying to cover up something else.

I inch toward the desk, feeling like I’m crossing into enemy territory. My fingers brush over the surface, smooth and cold. There’s a laptop, closed. Some fancy pen set. A stack of papers neatly squared off to the side. I hesitate, then flip through them.

"Pipeline plans, budgets... Where's the dirt, Larry?" I whisper to the silence.

I pull open a drawer—more papers, a couple of those stress balls he probably squeezes the life out of when things get heated. Typical stuff. But then something catches my eye: a photo. It’s of a group of kids, scrappy looking, with Larry smack in the middle, smiling like he hasn’t learned to be suspicious of the world yet. Something twinges inside me, but I shake it off.

My hand dives for the next drawer when the doorbell rings—a sharp, echoing chime that jolts through the quiet. My heart slams against my ribs.

"Shoot!"

I snap the drawer shut and my head whips around as if the walls might’ve grown eyes. What if it's him? What if he's back early?

Then I remind myself to chill. I've faced down bulldozers. I can handle a doorbell.

I take a deep breath and tiptoe out of the office, closing the door with a soft click behind me. Maybe it's just a package. Or maybe it's someone who actually knows how to knock on a door without making it sound like a death knell.

"Coming!" I call out, clearing my throat, trying to sound like I own the place. My footsteps echo as I make my way toward the unexpected interruption.

I bolt down the stairs, heart still going full throttle. The last thing I need is Larry catching me with my nose where it doesn't belong. I reach the bottom step, pivot, and head for the door.

I remind myself to keep my cool. No one is in the house. No one knows I was in his office.

My brain suggests that maybe Larry has hidden cameras and he's sent his security team to the house, but I push it aside.

The bell chimes again, urgent.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" I call out, though my voice is shakier than I'd like.

I fling open the door, bracing myself for whoever—or whatever—I might find. There, standing on the porch, is a delivery person holding a garment bag and an assortment of boxes that scream expensive.

"Delivery for..." he hesitates, and I already know what's coming. "A weeping willow?" he asks, eyeing me curiously. He probably didn't expect someone who looks like she just came from a sit-in at an oil rig.

I fume at Larry's use of the nickname. "Uh, yeah, that's me." I fumble for some semblance of authority and fail spectacularly.

"Where do you want this stuff?"

"Here's fine, thanks." I step aside, trying not to look as bewildered as I feel. I don't want Larry's fast fashion, but I've already lost this battle.

"Sign here, please." He hands me a digital pad, oblivious to the storm of emotions in my head.

"Thanks," I say as I scribble something that might pass for a signature.

"Have a good one," he says before heading back to his truck.

I look at the shipping label. There's a card tucked beneath it. I pull it out and read the message:

"Compliments of Lawrence Sinclair." I let out a humorless laugh. Like any sort of compliment from him would come without strings attached. I haul the garment bag and boxes into the living room, my curiosity piqued despite myself. The soft rustle of silk and the glint of something sequined catch my eye as I unzip the bag. Definitely not my usual hemp and cotton vibe. But it's... beautiful.

"Who knew you had taste, Larry?" I mutter under my breath, running my fingers over the luxe fabric.

A knock sounds at the door again. Not taking any chances this time, I stride over and swing it open to see a woman with a case full of makeup and hair tools.

"Willow?" she asks, her eyes scanning me from head to toe.

"Guilty."

"Great, I'm here for your makeover. Lawrence sent me." She breezes past me, setting up shop at the dining table. "My name's Robyn."

I bristle. Larry hadn't said anything about a makeover. All he had mentioned this morning was the wardrobe.

"Let's get started, shall we?"

The woman looks nice enough. She's got brown hair cut short and is mostly ordinary in every way, except I can tell she has kind eyes. It wouldn't be fair for me to take out my frustrations on her. I weigh the option of turning her away and consider what Larry might do when he gets home. Chances are we'll engage in the same argument we had about the wardrobe, and I'll be on the losing side again.

No, this isn't the right battle to fight. I need to save my ammunition for bigger things. Besides, I'll be the first to admit that I'm a little overdue for some hair color.

"Sure," I say, finally settling into the chair. "I take it this isn't your first rodeo with Mr. High-and-Mighty?"

She chuckles, sizing me up in the mirror. "I've done a few jobs for him, yeah."

"Is he always so..." I trail off, searching for the word.

"Intense?" she offers, beginning to work on my hair, her fingers deft and practiced.

"Intense, mysterious, infuriating," I add, feeling the tension in my shoulders start to ease under her touch.

"Sounds like you two have quite the history." She smiles knowingly in the mirror.

"Something like that," I admit, watching as she transforms my faded green tresses into something out of a magazine. "He's just so... opposite of everything I stand for."

"Opposites attract, they say," she teases, brushing out my hair with gentle strokes.

"Maybe in magnets and fairy tales," I counter, but I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "And hey, since you're here, can you do something about these roots?"

"Already on it," she replies with a wink, mixing up a color that somehow perfectly matches the vibrant green of my hair.

"Is Larry always such a stickler for appearances?" I ask, glancing at Robyn in the mirror as she starts to untangle another section of my hair. The new look is growing on me, but I can't shake off the curiosity about the man who mandated this transformation.

"Larry, huh?" She raises an eyebrow at the nickname, a small smile dancing on her lips. "That man's got layers like an onion."

"Layers? Really?" My skepticism must be palpable, because she chuckles, nodding as she works some product into my hair.

"Sure. He comes off all fire and brimstone, but there's more than meets the eye." She snips away a stray end, her hands confident and steady. "I've seen him at charity events, you know. Always the last to leave, making sure every cent goes where it's supposed to."

"Charity events?" That doesn't sound like the ruthless businessman I've been dealing with.

"Yup. And he's good with kids. Saw him once at the hospital ward during Christmas. You should have seen the way those children's faces lit up." She pauses, meeting my eyes in the reflection. "There's kindness in him, buried deep."

"Kindness.” I turn the word over in my mind like a pebble in a stream - smooth, cool, hard to grasp. I'm not sure what to make of this information. It's conflicting with everything I thought I knew about him.

"Of course, he's still Lawrence Sinclair. Driven. Won't take no for an answer. But that drive? It's not just for himself. He's got a whole lot of people depending on that shipping company of his. Jobs, livelihoods."

"Sounds like a lot of pressure." A twinge of sympathy flares within me, quickly stamped down by my lingering doubts.

"Pressure makes diamonds, or so they say." Her scissors glide through another lock of hair, falling softly to the floor. "Just saying, there might be a diamond hiding under all that rough."

"Maybe But it doesn't excuse the pipeline project."

"Nobody's perfect, Willow." She gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze through the salon cape. "But sometimes, even our enemies can surprise us."

The idea of Larry being anything other than a thorn in my side feels alien, yet here it is, creeping into my thoughts uninvited.

The cape swishes around me as I lean forward, intrigued. "How do you know Larry, anyway?" I ask her.

"Knew him before all this corporate tycoon stuff," she says with a smile. "Met him when he was fresh out of the system and still green around the edges." She snips around my ears, her gaze meeting mine in the mirror.

"Really?" I can't help but let curiosity weave its way through my skepticism. "What was he like before he became Mr. Big-Shot?"

"Stubborn. Would stand up for anyone at the drop of a hat." The hairdresser's hands never stop moving, but her eyes soften. "I know he didn't have an easy childhood. Growing up in foster cares and all that," she says. "He experienced some big disappointments. But, despite all that, he was the one you wanted in your corner."

I blink, processing. "He grew up in foster care?"

"As far as I know it," she says. "Bounced around homes until he became of age. But even back then, he had plans. Wanted to make something of himself, prove the world wrong."

"Sounds like he succeeded," I murmur, though the thought stirs an unexpected pang of respect.

"More than you know." She combs my hair gently. "Took over Maldonado's shipping company and not one person lost their job. That's akin to corporate suicide. He's rough around the edges, but his heart – it's gold."

A smile teases at my lips despite myself. It's hard to reconcile this image with the man pushing for a pipeline that could damage so much.

"Trust me, he's fighting battles no one sees." She finishes with my hair, a final flourish that leaves it feeling lighter. "Lawrence Sinclair is more than what the media paints him as."

"And you followed him all the way out to Greenwood Hollow?" I ask her, incredulous that someone could display so much loyalty.

Robyn smiles. "He asked me to make my way out here yesterday. Said he had something special that he only trusted to me."

"Maybe I've been too quick to judge," I admit, studying my reflection – seeing myself with fresh eyes, much like how I'm beginning to see Larry.

"Everyone's got layers, Willow. Like those fancy cakes you see in bakeries. Just gotta find the right slice to see 'em all."

Larry, with his firebrand reputation and sharp business acumen, might be more complex than I gave him credit for. Perhaps he's not just a ruthless industrialist after all; perhaps there's a side to him that cares, truly cares, about others.

"Thanks," I say, more to myself than to Robyn. As she uncloaks me and I rise from the chair, I feel a shift – subtle yet undeniable – in the narrative I've held about Lawrence Sinclair. It's a crack in my armor, a sliver of doubt about my staunch enemy, and it's unsettlingly welcome.

If everything Robyn says is true, maybe I can change his mind about this pipeline project.