Page 38 of Love so Hot

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 onmy 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."

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