Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 38Lawrence

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Lawrence

The steering wheel feels sticky under my palms, and the scenery crawls by like it's in no hurry. Each red light on the way downtown is a silent ally, giving me a few more seconds before I have to face the day. Crazy how work used to be my zone, my thing. Now? The thought of spreadsheets and contracts makes my skin crawl.

I pull over, kill the engine, and just sit for a sec. I sigh and muster the energy to get out of the car and trudge into the building.

"Lawrence!" The voice jolts me back to reality as I step into the lobby. Jason leans against the front desk, arms crossed. He's got that look, the one that means business—and not the good kind.

"Where've you been?" Always straight to the point, that guy. "We need to talk."

"Can't." I brush past him, the weight of his gaze on my back. "Got a meeting with Emily. We'll catch up after, promise."

"Better be nothing but net when we do," he calls out, but I'm already halfway to Emily's door, the thud of my heart louder than my footsteps.

Emily's silhouette fills the doorway, her posture rigid like she's bracing against a gale force wind.

"Finally," she snaps, not bothering with hellos. I follow her into the office, closing the door behind us. The sharp click of the latch feels ominous.

"Yesterday's incident with that protester made the front page," Emily states flatly, tapping the newspaper on her desk with a manicured nail. The headline screams chaos, and there's my face, right in the thick of it.

"Great," I mutter. "What's our play?"

She leans back in her chair, the picture of control but with that glint in her eye that says she’s already ten steps ahead. "We'll say you were defending your fiancée. Easy."

"Simple enough," I agree, trying to keep the unease out of my voice. "The reality is that I was defending Willow." But Emily isn't smiling, and that means this conversation is far from over.

"Defending Willow? Sure, but that's not the crux of it." Emily flicks the newspaper dismissively. "The optics are off. It paints us in a bad light with the protesters again."

I slump into the chair across from her desk, the leather creaking under my shifting weight.

"Isn't the point of this whole charade with Willow to soften our image? I'm not sure that it's working," I remark.

Emily raises an eyebrow. "It would work if you stuck to the script."

"What was I supposed to do? Let the guy hurt her? Not sure that would help our image."

"No, but why were you two out together in the first place? If you were here, at the office-"

I cut her off with a wave of my hand. "Just stop. What are you doing to fix this?"

"I've already been in touch with my contacts at the news station. They're squashing the story."

"Good. Then what was the point of all this if you're already on top of it?"

She pauses, as if weighing what she's about to say. "The point of it all is that I feel this fake engagement has shifted your priorities."

"Enough," I say. "My actions aren't up for discussion."

Emily leans back, her chair releasing a soft sigh, much like her next words. "Fine. But let's not make a habit of these... rescues." Her fingers tap a staccato rhythm against the polished wood, a silent reprimand for the chaos I seem to attract.

"Yeah, I know." I nod, biting back the retort that it's not always my fault. Sometimes trouble just finds you—or in this case, me.

"Progress with Hargraves?" she asks.

"Still on it," I say, shifting in my seat. The chair creaks, echoing my discomfort. "He's playing hardball. He was supposed to be at the wine festival, but was a no-show. I can't even seem to get him in the same room for a meeting."

Emily exhales, the sound lost amidst the hum of the air conditioning. "We may need to push harder. The pipeline's final approvals are coming up. Securing his support could be crucial."

"Got it," I reply, though I can already feel the headache forming at the base of my skull. Billy isn't known for being easy, but neither am I.

Emily stands, smoothing out her skirt with a practiced hand. "I'll leave you to it then. Time is ticking."

"Yeah, it tends to do that." I manage a half-smirk. I push back from Emily's desk and rise to my feet, the chair wheels squeaking a feeble protest. "I'll handle it," I assure her, the words ringing hollow even to my own ears.

Stepping out into the sterile chill of the corridor, I head towards my office, dodging coworkers with a nod here, a tight smile there. The usual energy that pulses through me at the prospect of a challenge is strangely absent today. Instead, a thread of restlessness weaves its way through my thoughts, pulling me away from this concrete jungle of desks and screens and back to... her.

Once inside the safety of my own office, I slump into the ergonomic chair that promises comfort but delivers none. My gaze drifts across the twin monitors, each one an avalanche of unread emails. They blur together, a digital mosaic of demands and deadlines.

"Damn," I mutter under my breath, rubbing my eyes. Not a single part of me wants to deal with any of this. My fingers hover above the keyboard, but they're itching for something else—something, or someone, who's not part of this world. Willow.

The door swings open with a creak, and Jason's there in the frame, all sharp angles and sharper glances. "Can we talk?" he asks, his tone suggesting it's not really a question.

"Later, Jay," I say, cutting him off before he can launch into whatever crisis has his tie in a twist. "I'm heading out. I'll call you this evening," I say, suddenly making the decision.

He arches an eyebrow, incredulity etched into every line on his face. "You just got here."

"Yeah. And now I'm leaving."

Jason studies me for a moment longer, as if trying to decipher a particularly challenging ledger. Then, with a sigh that speaks volumes of his frustration, he steps aside. "Fine. But this evening means this evening."

"Careful," I reply, already gathering up my things. "Let's not forget who the boss is around here."

"Lawrence..." Jason starts again, but I'm past listening.

"You're more than competent enough to handle whatever the situation is you're worried about." I don't wait for his response. I'm out the door, my strides eating up the distance to freedom. To Willow, with her green hair and impassioned rants about saving some patch of earth I've never heard of. It's crazy, I know. But right now, crazy feels a whole lot like exactly what I need.