Page 14 of Love so Hot

She chuckles, ruffling my hair. "It's a group of people who try to influence others into doing things. A lot like what you're trying to do with your cousins and the trees."

I sit there, munching on a celery stick, trying to wrap my ten-year-old brain around this bombshell. My mom used to fight for the environment? It's like finding out your cat can speak French.

"So... why'd you give up on all that stuff?" I ask, unable to keep the accusation out of my voice.

Mom's smile turns sad. "Your father's business... it wasn't exactly compatible with my ideals. But I loved him, and I decided to put love first."

I feel my face scrunch up in disgust. Gross. Love is great and all, but trees are forever. "I'm never gonna do that," I declare with all the certainty of a kid who still believes in Santa.

Mom laughs, but it sounds a little hollow. "I hope you never have to make that choice, sweetie," she says, pulling me in for another hug.

As I breathe in her familiar scent, I can't help but wonder: is this what growing up means? Giving up on the things you believe in? Well, not me. I'm going to save all the trees and animals, and fall in love with someone who wants to save them too. How hard can it be?

Chapter Eight

Lawrence

Present

I’m already mid-sigh when Emily bursts into my office, her eyes wide with the sort of news that no amount of caffeine can prep you for. I shoot up a hand, cutting off whatever alarm she's about to blare. "Hold it," I mutter, snagging my phone from the desk.

I tap into the live feed, and there it is, splashed across my screen like some avant-garde painting in an exhibit called 'Corporate Nightmares.' It's almost too perfect, really. Today’s supposed to be the big day—break ground on the new pipeline site, Greenwood Hollow's ticket to the future, yadda yadda. Just some good old-fashioned tree-clearing, nothing to make headlines over. Except now, thanks to Willow Harper, it's breaking news all right.

And speak of the devil—there she is, perched defiantly in this majestic oak like some sort of modern-day dryad. Chains glitter around her wrists and loop lazily around one of the branches, as if she's accessorizing for a protest-themed photoshoot. She’smade herself the centerpiece of a spectacle designed to throw a wrench into my meticulously scheduled day.

"Of course, she's up a tree," I grumble under my breath, shaking my head at the audacity. I mean, talk about commitment to a cause—Willow’s turned activism into performance art.

"Lawrence, do you—" Emily begins, but I wave her off again, transfixed by the scene unfolding on my palm-sized window to the world.

"Shhh," I say, not taking my eyes off the screen, "I'm savoring the moment." My tone is all sarcasm because if I don't laugh at the absurdity of it all, I might just start tearing out my hair.

"Shouldn't we—" Emily tries once more, but I'm lost in thought.

"Strategy later," I reply absently. Right now, I need to witness every second of this impromptu tree-hugging festival. Besides, how often does one get to see their corporate plans thwarted by a lone environmentalist anchored to an oak like she's the last pirate on a sinking ship? But hey, I’ll give her points for creativity. Not many can claim they've shut down a multimillion-dollar project with nothing but a pair of chains and sheer stubbornness.

Keys clink in my hand as I surge toward the door, Emily's voice trailing behind me like an afterthought. "Lawrence, wait! What's the plan?" she calls out, but her words are just background noise against the drumming of anticipation in my veins.

"Plan? Who needs a plan when you've got a live show?" I toss back over my shoulder, barely slowing my stride. The thrill of the unexpected lights a fire in my chest, and I'm all too eager to fan the flames.

I hit the exit with purpose. It's not every day you get to play knight in shining armor to your own damsel in distress—even if she is the one putting your business plans on hold.

The heavy door thuds shut behind me, sealing away Emily's protests and the sterile chill of the air-conditioned office. Outside, the sun glares down, unforgiving, as if it knows exactly where I need to be—and it isn't here negotiating corporate strategies.

A smirk plays on my lips as I slip into the driver's seat of my behemoth of a car—the black Defender that screams excess with every purr of its engine. It's the kind of vehicle that would make any tree-hugger weep, and I can't deny there's a twisted satisfaction in that.

Pulling out onto the street, I let the lull of the engine settle into my bones. Today’s going to be interesting, that's for sure. A showdown with Greenwood Hollow's most passionate protector? Not exactly what I'd penciled into my calendar, but hell, spontaneity has always been more my style anyway.

The phone's tinny speakers struggle under the strain of the live stream's volume as I weave my way through Greenwood Hollow.

"…seems to be no sign of backing down from the Earth Defenders," the journalist is saying, and then—cue the theatrics—a chorus of chants rises up like some kind of grassroots symphony. "Save our trees, save our souls!" they yell, and I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck.

Despite my annoyance, I can’t help but toss a glance at the screen where Willow's aqua-green hair makes her look more like a mermaid perched in an oak tree than a protester. The journalist shoves the microphone upwards, futilely attempting to catch her silent proclamation from her arboreal soapbox. It's all a bit ridiculous; she's too far up for any sound to travel down to the eager masses below.

But Willow just sits there, a serene fixture amidst the chaos. If this were anyone else's circus, I'd be in stitches by now. But no, it's my circus, complete with my very own environmentalist clown. Only, she's not juggling balls—she's juggling public opinion against me.

Come to think of it, I'd much rather her be juggling balls—mine in particular.

As the Defender rolls closer to the site of today's unintended entertainment, the journalist keeps jabbering away, his words blending with the chants and the occasional car horn from the traffic that's starting to bottleneck thanks to the spectacle.

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