Page 15 of Love so Hot

I sigh, the lightheartedness of the situation warring with the gnawing realization that this stunt will mean overtime for my PR team. And there's nothing funny about that.

The engine cuts out with a purr, and I'm already bracing for the onslaught of questions as my loafers hit the gravel at the site. There's a palpable energy in the air, electric with controversy and camera flashes. I squint against the intrusive lenses and mentally place bets on whether River's lurking somewhere, orchestrating this circus from the shadows.

This whole event definitely feels more "River Rapids" than "Weeping Willow."

"Mr. Sinclair, can you comment on—" a journalist begins, but I brush past him without missing a beat.

"Beautiful day for a protest, isn't it?" I quip, offering up a non-answer with a grin. My strides are confident, purposeful, each step a practiced move in this environmental chess game.

"Will this affect your project timeline?" another tries, thrusting a mic in my general direction.

"Mother Nature and I are just working out some creative differences," I shoot back, my gaze fixed ahead as I navigate through the sea of reporters like a ship cutting through choppy waters.

And then, there she is. Willow Harper, perched high above us mere mortals, her aqua-green hair a banner of defiance against the rugged backdrop of Greenwood Hollow's ancient oak. She could be a figure straight out of a fairy tale—if fairies wore hemp and chained themselves to trees. Her clothing, no doubt hand-stitched by some local artisan, billows slightly in the gentle breeze, the fabric whispering secrets of far-off lands she's trodden in her nomadic quest to save the planet.

"Willow! Looking a bit... tied up at the moment, aren’t we?" I call out, knowing full well she won't deign to answer. She only stares down at me, those green eyes unblinking, as if challenging me to understand her silent vigil. It's almost endearing how she clings to that branch, a stubborn sprite safeguarding her forest realm.

"Should I bring you a ladder, or are you planning to make that tree your permanent home?" I say louder this time, though it's more for the benefit of the cameras than any real expectation of dialogue.

A smirk plays on my lips, but deep down, I have to admit—this is the most fun I've had in weeks. The thrill of the unexpected, the challenge of facing off with an opponent who's just as headstrong as I am. It's invigorating.

No answer comes, just a defiant silence that hangs heavier than the chains around her wrists.

"Silent protest, huh?" I remark to no one in particular, rolling my eyes at the absurdity of it all. The journalist next to me nods, eager for a sound bite. "Willow, you've got sixty seconds to get out of that tree, or else."

"Or else what?" the journalist presses, shoving a microphone closer like it's a weapon.

I just shoot him a look and turn away, leaving him stewing in his own curiosity.

Striding over to where the workers are gathered, I spot a chainsaw in the hands of a burly guy who looks as confused as a puppy in a thunderstorm. "Give it here," I demand, snapping my fingers at him. He hesitates, obviously not briefed on the possibility of an executive doing manual labor today.

"Chainsaw. Now," I clarify, my impatience leaking into my tone. Reluctantly, he passes it over, the heavy machinery feeling foreign in my hands.

"Watch and learn, boys," I say with a dramatic flair, flipping the switch and feeling the machine roar to life. It vibrates with a ferocity that mirrors my determination—or is it desperation? I'm not sure anymore.

I make my way to the base of the tree, each stride a show for the cameras that have turned their greedy lenses on me. Willow's gaze drills into mine from above, and I can see it—the fear. She's probably convinced I'm crazy enough to saw through the trunk, toppling both the oak and her in a grandiose display of corporate power.

"Time's ticking, Harper," I call out, the chainsaw's growl punctuating my words. Her eyes, two emerald flames in a face that's usually so calm, betray her thoughts. She's weighing her options, calculating the risks. But then again, so am I.

The chainsaw hums in my grip, a beast awaiting my command, and I feel the rush of an unspoken challenge between us. Who will back down first? The eco-warrior perched in her makeshift fortress, or the suit with a power tool and zero intention of becoming a lumberjack today?

"Come on, Willow. Don't make me do something we'll both regret," I think to myself, hoping she'll sense reason before the clock runs out.

"Ten," I start, voice booming over the sudden hush that blankets the crowd. The chainsaw buzzes in my hands, acantankerous growl that seems eager to chew through the ancient bark.

"Nine." My heart thumps, an awkward drum solo against my ribcage.

"Eight." A woodpecker’s distant tapping is now the only competition to the chainsaw's din. Even the wind holds its breath, the pine-scented air stagnant and heavy around us.

"Seven." Willow's aqua-green hair sways as she shifts her weight in the tree, the hand-dyed hemp of her clothing blending with the leaves. She's a natural up there, a wild sprite defending her domain.

"Six." I can feel every gaze upon me—accusatory, pleading, expectant. It's like standing center stage at a twisted play where I've forgotten all my lines.

"Five." The chain vibrates against the trunk, a metallic kiss promising destruction. I'm not cut out for the role of villain—I can't even handle paper cuts gracefully.

"Four." Sweat beads on my forehead, and I wonder if it's from the exertion or the sheer absurdity of the situation. Who needs the gym when you've got eco standoffs for a workout?

"Three." My arm starts to numb from the chainsaw's relentless shaking, a reminder of why I sit behind a desk making calls and not felling trees.

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