Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 57

The key turns in the lock with a click that feels way too loud. I step inside, the air stale and heavy with silence. It's strange being back here. The walls echo with memories that used to make me smile, but now they just hang there, cold and distant.

I told Lawrence I needed to get the rest of my things. He said he was heading back to Norfolk but that I could go in at my convenience. He’d be turning the place back over to the owners soon.

There's a sadness in coming back to this place alone. I know I’m the one who ended things between us, and most of the time I was here was spent arguing with Lawrence. But knowing it's the last time I’ll ever be inside this house, the place where Lawrence and I, even briefly, found common ground, is sad.

"Home sweet home," I mutter to myself, dropping my duffel bag by the door.

I make my way through the living room, where dust motes dance in the sunlight slanting through half-open blinds. It looks the same, but it’s like someone sucked the life right out of it.

I can't take the stillness, so I turn on the television before walking into the bedroom. I can hear it hum quietly from its corner, some news anchor droning on about stock prices and market predictions.

On the bed are all the clothes Larry told me he’d thrown away, folded and arranged neatly. A tear rolls down my cheek, but I brush it aside.

I grab a suitcase out of the closet and open it. Kneeling down, I place a tie-dye shirt I bought at a street fair last summer inside. My fingers linger on the fabric, the colors as vibrant as the day I dyed it—aqua green, like my hair.

There are only a few of my things left here. Most of the wardrobe is filled with gorgeous clothing from Bellini. Lawrence told me I should take all of it, that it’s mine. But I don’t see how I can do that. It must have cost a fortune. Besides, having it in my closet might be too painful. It would be a constant reminder every time I opened the doors of that day.

Lawrence and I, under that old oak tree, his hazel eyes trying to read me while I destroyed his heart. I still can’t get what he said to me out of my head:

"You have something many people long for—a family that cares, even from afar. Remember how lucky you are to have that, even if it's complicated."

"Maybe you’re right," I whisper to the empty room, to him in my head. "Maybe I owe it to them to make an effort. Maybe I can change things from the inside instead of being against them on the outside."

I put the shirt inside the suitcase. It’s decided then. I’ll go back to them, to my family’s empire of glass and steel. Maybe I can be the wrench in their works, turn things around. Make things better.

"Who knows?" I say, glancing at the TV. "Stranger things have happened."

I toss the rest of my few things into the suitcase and zip it up. I grab the handle, ready to wheel it out. But something makes me pause, a sudden shift in the anchor’s tone, a ripple of urgency that breaks through the monotony. My hand lets go of the suitcase, and I turn to look at the screen.

"Stay tuned for the upcoming press conference regarding Sinclair Shipping's response to the recent pipeline incident," the anchor says, and I can feel my heartbeat kick up a notch.

I stare at the television, a knot forming in my stomach. The press conference is about to start, the one where Larry’s company will address the pipeline. After the explosion, the world’s eyes are on Sinclair Shipping, waiting for answers. I don’t want to watch, to hear excuses or justifications, but something keeps me rooted to the spot.

"Come on," I mutter to myself, willing the broadcast to begin so I can get it over with. "Just rip off the band-aid."

Thinking of Larry tugs at my heartstrings. The way he broke down in front of me at the oak tree. Shared vulnerabilities about his past with me.

Told me he loved me.

I wish he hadn’t. Because if he hadn’t, then I wouldn’t have to face the very real truth that I love him too.

And grapple with the fact that I love a man who stands for everything I’ve dedicated my life to fighting against.

"Contradiction, thy name is love," I whisper, shaking my head.

As I sit down on the living room sofa, the murmurs from the TV grow louder, more agitated. There’s confusion on the stage, people milling about like they’ve lost their script. No sign of Larry yet.

"Should’ve started by now," I note, the knot in my gut tightening.

My hands are trembling, and I hate that I’m so affected by this. I turn to the screen, trying to make sense of the chaos unfolding before the cameras.

"Where are you, Larry?" I say under my breath, fear creeping in. Something’s not right; I can feel it in my bones.

"Get on with it already," I snap at the TV, though I’m not sure if I’m talking to the flustered PR team or urging Larry to appear and dispel the growing dread inside me. My eyes are glued to the scene, bracing for whatever comes next.

Finally, someone comes across the stage. I squint at the screen, expecting to see Larry’s familiar red hair and that confident stride he uses like armor. Instead, an older blonde woman walks across the stage. I recognize her as Larry’s PR manager. My heart skips. Why isn’t he there?

"Emily?" I mutter, my voice barely a whisper against the hum of the TV.

She glances around, her eyes betraying a hint of nervousness. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I’ve seen enough people bluff to recognize it. She’s worried about something too.

"Come on, Emily. Spill it," I urge quietly, leaning forward.

My mind races through possibilities of where Larry could be, none of them good.

Is he hurt? Sick? Or worse, has he done something rash, something impulsive in the wake of the explosion? That temper of his could be his downfall, and I can’t bear the thought.

"Damn it," I curse softly, the anxiety clawing up my throat.

I stand abruptly, then sit again, restless energy coursing through me. I’m supposed to leave, to get away from all this, but here I am, tethered to the spot by concern for a man who’s probably too stubborn to admit if he’s in trouble.

"Please be okay," I plead to the universe or to Larry himself, whoever’s listening.

The scene cuts from the anchor, who is giving a play-by-play of the crowd’s confusion, to Emily, who clears her throat and starts to speak.