Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 18Lawrence

Chapter Eighteen

Lawrence

Present

I walk through my front door, ready to face the usual silence, but—holy hell—there's Willow, looking like she just stepped off a runway. As a model, not a protester, to be clear.

"Well, damn," tumbles out of my mouth before I can catch it.

She whirls around, her face a cocktail of annoyance and... is that nerves? Her hair's still green, but darker now. Think lush forest, not neon nightmare. It tumbles over her shoulders in waves, framing her face and making those emerald peepers pop. As I stare into the color, I find it completely calming, which is a surprise for me.

"Well," she drawls, her tone screaming volumes about how much fun she had playing dress-up Barbie.

But I'm too busy short-circuiting over how knockout gorgeous she looks to care about her mood. "Willow..." My words fizzle out as I take in the rest of her. Gone are the hemp sacks she usually calls clothes. In their place? Pure elegance. A sleek black number hugs her in all the right places. This isn't my Willow—the one ready to go full Greenpeace on my ass at a moment's notice.

I close in, circling her like a shark, still trying to compute this glammed-up version of the relentless activist who's been the bane of my existence since she declared war on my pipeline project.

"Looking good," I nod, gesturing at her whole... situation. "How's it feel?"

She tucks a wayward strand behind her ear, glancing down at the fabric clinging to her curves. She heaves a sigh worthy of a telenovela star. It's like she can't decide between ripping me a new one or grudgingly admitting I might be onto something. "Well, my color was fading anyway," she confesses, that familiar spark of rebellion dimmed to a flicker. "But I wasn't about to go full corporate blonde."

I cock an eyebrow. "And the dress? That's light-years away from your usual boho chic. You look ready to storm Milan Fashion Week instead of my boardroom."

Willow lets out a laugh that's about as convincing as a politician's promise, her fingers fidgeting with the hem. "Yeah, right. It feels... weird. Not really me, but I guess change isn't always the devil's work."

"Change can be good," I concede, watching her chest rise and fall with uncertainty beneath that fancy fabric. "As long as it's what you want."

I lean back against the doorframe, a casual pose that's anything but, as I watch Willow squirm like a worm on a hook. The tension between us is so thick you could slice it and serve it on a silver platter. "So, what's your jam then? If not this," I wave at her couture prison, "what makes Willow feel like Willow?"

She pauses, her eyes going distant before snapping back to mine like a rubber band. "I like threads that... talk, you know?" she starts, her voice finding its footing. "They should scream who we are, what we're about."

"Talk, huh?" I cross my arms, nodding, intrigued despite my better judgment. "And what kind of wardrobe screams 'Weeping Willow' to the masses?"

A smile tugs at her lips, a flash of pride lighting up those forest-green eyes. "There's this designer," she says, excitement creeping into her voice like ivy. "Marco Bellini. He makes these killer pieces out of recycled stuff, all ethical."

"High-end couture from trash?" I can't resist the jab, but the spark in her eyes has me genuinely curious.

"From sustainable sources," she corrects, giving me a look that could wilt flowers. "His work's gorgeous and doesn't screw over Mother Earth. It's fashion that's more than just a pretty face—it's a whole damn TED Talk."

"Guess that's one way to break the ice at parties."

"Exactly." Willow's face softens, her usual inferno simmering down to something almost... inviting. "Clothes are powerful. They're a choice. Every thread, every stitch tells a story about who made it, where it came from, and the shit it's been through."

"Sounds like you've put more thought into this than most people put into their doctoral theses," I admit, finding myself oddly impressed by her passion. Maybe there's common ground here after all, in the bizarre twilight zone of sustainable fashion.

"Always," she nods, her eco-warrior spirit shining brighter than a solar panel at high noon. "If I'm gonna wear something, it better mean something."

"Fair enough," I concede, her words bouncing around my skull like a pinball. "I need to get some work done," I say suddenly.

"Okay," she stammers, taken aback.

I slip out of the room, leaving Willow to her sustainable dreams. The house is quiet as a tomb, shadows playing tricks on my eyes as I navigate the dim hallway. I can't shake the image of her in that dress – it's like she shed a skin, revealing a creature I hadn't expected lurking beneath.

This whole fake dating scheme is getting under my skin, messing with my head worse than a hangover after cheap tequila. I had to take a breather from being so close to her back there. If I didn't, there's no telling where things may have ended up.

I whip out my phone, thumb hovering over the screen like I'm about to launch a nuclear missile. I tap out a message to Emily, and her reply hits my inbox faster than a Wall Street trader on Red Bull.

I need you to get me in touch with Marco Bellini.

The fashion designer?

No, the pizza guy.

Yes, the designer.

Why?

Don't ask questions.

Just execute.

Silence stretches out like a cat in a sunbeam, and I'm about to call her when suddenly my phone screams to life.

I answer and some perky receptionist chirps that they've got Mr. Bellini on the line.

I make a mental note to tell Emily I underestimated her.

"Fantastic," I reply, smooth as butter. "Put him through." The line beeps and I dive in headfirst.

"Mr. Bellini," I start, injecting enough confidence in my voice to fuel a motivational speaker. "Lawrence Sinclair here."

There's a pause, papers shuffling. "What can I do for you, Mr. Sinclair?"

Pleasantries dispensed with, time to lay my cards on the table. "I've got a proposition for you. It involves your designs and a certain determined environmentalist who thinks you're the second coming of Coco Chanel."

"I'm listening," Marco prompts, interest piqued.

"Let's just say I want to make a statement," I say, keeping it vague. "One that aligns with certain... convictions. And I think your fashion could be the megaphone."

"Intriguing." Marco's voice holds a hint of curiosity now. "Are we talking one showstopper or a full wardrobe overhaul?"

"Let's start with one. Something bespoke. Something that speaks volumes without uttering a damn word."

"Mr. Sinclair, you've hooked me. Let's talk details."

I grin, feeling the thrill of a new deal being struck. This isn't just about throwing Willow a bone; it's about showing her I can play her game and win.

"Perfect." I lean back against the wall, ready to dive into the shark tank of negotiations. "Here's what I've got brewing in my evil corporate mind...I want something that'll knock Willow off her Birkenstocks. Something sustainable, edgy, but classy."

"Willow? As in the Earth Defenders' founder?" Marco's voice perks up.

"The one and only," I confirm. "You know her?"

"Know her? Christ, anyone in this business who hasn't been living under a rock knows Willow." There's a pregnant pause on the line. "Hold up. Aren't you the guy she's been trying to crucify over that pipeline? Why the hell are you playing fairy godmother to her wardrobe?"

I force out a laugh that's about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. "Yeah, that's me, public enemy number one. But we've reached a... let's call it a détente. Trying to find that sweet spot between saving trees and keeping the lights on.”

Marco hesitates, probably wondering if he's being punked. "Alright, I'll bite. What's your vision? And please tell me we're talking more than just one piece. If it's for Willow, it's worth going all out."

I run a hand through my hair. "Look, I'll be honest. When it comes to my own fashion, I'm more interested in the label than how it's made. But that's not her and that's why I'm calling you. But I know it needs to be a statement."

"Statement, got it. How about we start with something made from recycled ocean plastic? It's on-brand for her Earth Defender schtick," Marco suggests.

"Ocean plastic, huh?" I tap a pen against my desk, ideas starting to percolate. "Yeah, that could work. But it needs to be more... Willow. Can we work in something that screams 'I chain myself to endangered trees for fun'? Like, I don't know, a print inspired by some obscure species she's probably camped out to save?"

"Custom print, check. We can make that happen," Marco replies, enthusiasm cranked up to eleven. "We'll use eco-friendly inks, of course. Can't have her breaking out in hives from hypocrisy."

"Perfect. And make it something she can actually move in. Willow's not exactly the stand-still-and-look-pretty type." The image of her marching at a protest, eyes blazing like green infernos, flashes through my mind. "She needs to be able to scale a redwood at a moment's notice."

"Comfort, got it. I'm thinking flowing silhouette, maybe some layers for depth. We can put together a digital lookbook for her to choose from, all tailored to her eco-warrior

aesthetics," Marco offers.

"Lookbook, yes. Do that." My head's buzzing with ideas now, plans forming like a corporate takeover strategy. "I'll email you some other nuggets to work with. Can you have something ready for a fitting and shoot by next week? I'm working on a tight schedule here."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Marco confirms, sounding like he's already sketching.

"Thanks," I say, hanging up before he can change his mind.

I scribble down notes like a madman, then grab my laptop and start stalking Willow's social media like a desperate ex. Photos of her at rallies, selfies from some godforsaken campsite, even those candid shots where she's oblivious to the camera—they all tell me something about her style. It's earthy, practical, with a dash of whimsy that's pure Willow. A walking contradiction, just like the woman herself.

I stumble on a post where she's wearing a dress, simple but plastered with a bold pattern of tangled vines and leaves. Her smile is genuine, carefree. That's the look I'm gunning for—the Willow who's not sizing me up like her next takedown target.

I fire off an email to Marco with the photo attached. "Something in this ballpark," I type. "But cranked up to eleven. She's about to go from tree-hugger to spotlight-stealer, after all."

It's stupid o'clock when I finally shut down the laptop. I stand, stretching out kinks I didn't even know I had. This is good, I think. Not just a potential olive branch, but a chance to crack the Willow code. For the first time since this crazy charade kicked off, I'm actually looking forward to seeing her reaction. Who knew playing dress-up could be such a rush?