Page 41 of Love so Hot

"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 showmyself 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.”

---