Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 19Lawrence

Chapter Nineteen

Lawrence

I push the door open, a soft creak breaking the silence of the tranquil afternoon. Beside me, Ms. Claridge, etiquette guru extraordinaire, steps into the sunlit foyer. She's my hail Mary, the woman who I hope can inject a touch of refinement into Willow's wild spirit—just enough to convince the old money vultures that she's one of their Stepford wives.

I give Ms. Claridge a once-over. She's got her graying hair in a tight bun, and she's adjusting her pearls with well-manicured fingers.

As we strut through the house, I start wondering if even Ms. Claridge can work her magic on Willow. I wouldn't bet my pipeline on it.

"My better half should be through here," I say, leading Ms. Claridge into the living room like I'm giving a tour of a zoo exhibit.

There she is, my fiery yet poised fiancée, Willow Harper, bent at an angle that doesn't look like a body should bend that way. Her ankles are over her head, and her arms are down on the floor. She looks completely at peace, despite the fact that it looks like someone folded her backward. Her newly updated hair fans out around her. She embodies the untamed beauty of the Hollow, right down to her locally sourced hemp clothing that flows around her as if it's part of the very air she breathes.

"Willow," I call out, but she doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink. Just shifts into another pose, steady as the ancient oaks outside.

"Yoga," Ms. Claridge observes under her breath, a hint of disapproval twining through her words.

"It's her thing," I shrug, feeling a grin tugging at my mouth despite the circus unfolding before us. Can't deny it—I'm starting to become a sucker for her brand of crazy. The unpredictability, the defiance, the passion that burns hotter than an oil rig fire.

"Fascinating," is all Ms. Claridge says, her eyes wide as they take in the sight of Willow transitioning smoothly into a handstand.

"Hey," I try again, louder this time.

Willow's feet kiss the ground, and she turns to face us. Those emerald eyes lock onto mine, sparkling with a cocktail of amusement and challenge that screams, "What fresh hell is this, Larry?" Without a word, that look tells me she knows I'm up to something shadier than her centuries-old oak.

"Ms. Claridge, meet Willow. My wildflower fiancée. Willow, this is Ms. Debra Claridge," I announce as the human etiquette manual beside me steps forward, oozing more class than a finishing school graduation.

"Ms. Claridge specializes in etiquette training," I continue, watching Willow's reaction closely.

"Delighted to meet you, Ms. Willow." Ms. Claridge greets her with a polished smile and extends her hand.

Willow pauses mid-stretch, her eyes narrowing just so, a storm brewing in those sea-green depths. She straightens up, the picture of grace despite the irritation etching her features, and takes Ms. Claridge's hand. "Pleasure," she says, but her voice lacks its usual warmth.

"Lawrence tells me you're preparing for an important role," Ms. Claridge adds.

"Oh, does he now?" Willow's gaze swings to me, and damn if that look couldn't slice through steel. It's that fiery spirit, that 'fuck you' attitude that hooked me from the first time I saw her picture.

"Indeed," I step in quickly before the silence stretches too thin. "With our engagement, there are certain... expectations."

"Expectations," Willow parrots, her tone as measured as a shot of top-shelf whiskey. But I catch the way her jaw clenches. She's holding back, and I can tell it's costing her more than my last hostile takeover. "I'm all about meeting expectations." The sarcasm's subtle as a sledgehammer, but I can't help but admire her restraint. Most days, she'd be readying the trebuchet by now.

Ms. Claridge wastes no time. "Dining room?" she asks, and I point her a little ways off. Her steps are measured as she makes her way over. She's all business as she unzips her bags with a flourish, laying out an intricate dinner setup. I stand back, arms crossed, watching the silverware clink gently into place, napkins folded into stiff peaks, and crystal glasses catching the afternoon light that streams through the windows.

"Willow, if you could join us at the table," Ms. Claridge calls out, gesturing towards the high-backed chair.

"Sure," Willow replies, rolling up her yoga mat with a fluid motion. She glides over, that beautiful hair of hers swaying. "What's on the menu?" she asks, but something tells me she's not asking about food.

"Before we get to that," Ms. Claridge begins, pointing to each piece of the arrangement with a practiced air, "let's discuss the proper way to navigate a formal dinner setting."

"Ah, that won't be necessary," Willow interjects, perching on the chair's edge. Her voice is steady, confident. "I'm quite familiar with dinner etiquette, thank you."

Ms. Claridge's brows shoot up, and I can feel my own surprise mirrored on my face. "Is that so?" she challenges, her tone polite but edged with skepticism. "Perhaps you'd care to walk us through the setup, then?"

"Of course." Willow stands, her movements elegant and sure. She gestures to each item as she speaks. "Salad fork to the left, then the dinner fork. To the right, the knife with the blade facing inward, soup spoon, and oyster fork. The bread plate goes to the left, above the forks, and the glasses are arranged from left to right: water, red wine, white wine."

She rattles it off without breaking a sweat, without so much as a glance at Ms. Claridge for a gold star. It's like she's done this more times than I've signed NDAs. And hell, maybe she has. But for someone who's spent the last few years sleeping under more stars than a planetarium and fighting for every scrap of untamed wilderness, it's a plot twist I didn't see coming.

"Very impressive, Ms. Willow," Ms. Claridge admits, her poise unshaken but her eyes betraying a hint of respect—or is it wariness?

"Thanks," Willow says simply, reclaiming her seat with a small, triumphant smile. "It's amazing what sticks with you."

The room is charged with a strange energy, a mix of tension and newfound understanding. Even Ms. Claridge seems momentarily at a loss for words. Meanwhile, I'm left grappling with the realization that there's so much more to Willow than I ever guessed.

"Alright, Willow," Ms. Claridge states with a calculated smile, "You've certainly impressed with your knowledge of silverware. But etiquette is more than just table settings. Let's see how you handle posture and poise."

"Posture?" Willow arches an eyebrow, the hint of a challenge in her eyes. "I've walked more benefit galas than you can imagine, Ms. Claridge. I think I've got it covered."

Ms. Claridge's smile doesn't falter. "Show me."

With that, Willow rises from her chair, as fluid as water flowing over pebbles in a Greenwood Hollow stream. Her spine straightens, shoulders square back, and there's this... regality about her. It's like she's shed the hemp garments for a moment and donned an invisible crown.

"Imagine you're at a state dinner," Ms. Claridge instructs, circling Willow like a hawk. "Every eye is on you."

Willow's chin tilts up ever so slightly, her gaze fixed ahead. She takes measured steps across the woven rug, each foot placed with deliberate grace. It's completely at odds with the fiery activist who'd scale trees and chain herself to bulldozers without a second thought.

"Turn," Ms. Claridge says.

And Willow executes a pivot that's all elegance—no hesitation, no misstep. If she's feeling any of the defiance I know simmers beneath her calm exterior, she doesn't show it.

"Enough." Ms. Claridge holds up a hand, and Willow comes to a stop, still poised, still looking every bit the part of a woman born into high society.

"That what you had in mind?" Willow's voice is smooth as twelve-year-old scotch, but there's a glint in her green eyes that tells me she's enjoying this little show.

"Indeed," Ms. Claridge replies, though I catch a flicker of surprise cross her features before she masks it again.

I'm gobsmacked. Who is this Willow, really? The enigma wrapped in hand-dyed hemp has more layers than a corporate tax shelter. I collapse into a chair, trying to reconcile the image of the woman twisting herself into a pretzel with the one who just waltzed through an impromptu finishing school class.

"Well, I'll be damned," I finally manage to say. "Color me impressed." The words feel as inadequate as a participation trophy, but what else is there to say? I'm watching someone who's shattering every box I've tried to stuff her into.

"Thanks," she replies, that victorious smile playing on her lips again. It's crystal clear she doesn't need my seal of approval, but she accepts it like it's her due.

"Anything else you'd like to school me on?" she asks Ms. Claridge, the question more of a dare than a genuine inquiry.

Ms. Claridge hesitates, her usual iron-clad confidence wobbling. "That will be all for now," she concedes.

"Fantastic," Willow says, and without another word, she flows back to the living room and into her yoga routine, wild and free as a mustang—etiquette expert or not.

Ms. Claridge's hand lightly grips my arm, steering me away from the open space where Willow has resumed her fluid dance of stretches and poses. The afternoon sun filters through the windows, casting a warm glow on her forest-green hair as she transitions into a downward dog. I can't help but watch, mesmerized by the serene focus in those striking green eyes.

"Listen," Ms. Claridge murmurs, her voice low enough that it won't carry to Willow. I force myself to turn my attention away from Willow. "I've been doing this for years, and I know when someone's already polished. She's got the training, all right."

I blink, taken aback. "You mean..."

"She's good. Really good." Ms. Claridge's gaze flits back toward Willow, who arches into an upward-facing dog with effortless grace. "Your fiancée doesn't need me to teach her how to hold a salad fork or sit up straight. She's already there."

"Then why the hell?—"

"Maybe you should've asked her first," Ms. Claridge suggests, not unkindly. With a shrug, she gathers her bags. "I'll show myself out. Good luck with... whatever game of 4D chess you two are playing."

"Thanks, Ms. Claridge," I manage, but she's already heading towards the door, leaving me standing in the middle of my own living room feeling like a complete fool.

As the door clicks shut behind Ms. Claridge, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I walk over to the living room and slump back onto the sofa, watching Willow glide through her movements. When she finishes, she turns to face me, a bead of sweat tracing its way down her temple, her expression unreadable.

"Next time, ask," she says simply, her tone calm but edged. "Don't assume I don't know something just because it doesn't fit your corporate raider image of me."

"Fair enough," I concede, the corners of my mouth twitching upwards despite the situation. It’s hard to stay defensive when she looks at me like that – like I’m a puzzle she’s still deciding if she wants to solve. "You've got more layers than an onion, Weeping Willow."

A snort escapes her, and I swear I catch the ghost of a smile. "And you've got more assumptions than a hedge fund manager, Larry. Let's try to avoid jumping to conclusions in the future, capisce?"

"Deal," I agree, nodding like I'm sealing a multi-billion dollar merger before breaking into a full-on shit-eating grin. "No more underestimating you."

She considers me for a moment longer, then nods once, decisively. “Good. Because I can surprise you in ways you can't even imagine.”

The promise in her words sends a thrill down my spine, and I can't help thinking that maybe this fake engagement is going to be anything but business as usual.