Page 1 of Love so Hot

Chapter One

Lawrence Sinclair

I easemy Range Rover Defender into a patch of gravel that dares to call itself a parking lot. It's like time decided to skip this place, leaving it stuck in an age where smartphones are probably considered witchcraft, and progress is a dirty word. The makeshift structure that is supposed to be my temporary office looks like it was cobbled together from spare parts and wishful thinking. Charming.

A lot of people think that West Virginia is full of hillbillies, but that's not true. What it's full of are obnoxious tree huggers that do everything in their power to stop progress. That's probably why downtown Greenwood Hollow looks like it's straight out of an old-timey magazine.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror—perfectly coiffed red hair, piercing hazel eyes, and a tailored suit that probably costs more than most of these locals make in a year. I've got this. I always do.

Stepping out of the car, the crisp mountain air assaults my nostrils. It's almost... pleasant. Almost. The sun is annoyinglybright, and I squint as I make my way toward the ramshackle office.

I wouldn't be here if it weren't for the fact that I have to be. Lawrence Sinclair doesn't do "quaint" or "charming." Give me steel, glass, and the sweet scent of ambition any day. But, as a newly minted CEO of a shipping carrier, I've decided to do something no one in my industry has done before.

You know what big ships hauling things overseas need? Fuel. And a lot of it. So, I'm going to build a pipeline that brings the fuel we need to power our fleet down from the mountains of West Virginia all the way to the ports of Norfolk.

And then whatever extra we have left over we can sell on the open market. It's brilliant, really. It's uncharted territory for my industry, sure, but that's what makes it exciting. That's what's going to put Sinclair Shipping on the map—not just another company, but pioneers.

Sure, there have been a few hiccups, but nothing I can't handle. First, there are the campers. Not the happy-go-lucky vacationers looking for some R&R, but a dedicated band of environmentalists who seem to have mistaken the field for their own personal Woodstock. They've set up shop right where my pipeline is supposed to start, waving their signs like flags on a battlefield. Crazy doesn't quite do justice to the spectacle.

The second is the paperwork. Money and permits. "Expensive" doesn't even begin to cover the cost of ambition—or pipelines, for that matter. But I don't balk at a few zeroes on a price tag, especially when there's a legacy to build. I’ve got a gaggle of investors licking their chops at the thought of the returns on this project. And permits? They're just paper hoops to jump through. We've got everything we need to break ground. Sure, further approvals will be needed down the line, but I’m not worried about that.

My PR team is telling me that the only thing standing between me and my modern marvel of logistics is public support—which is proving to be more elusive than a straight answer from a politician. Personally, I don’t see why I need to cow to the public at all. I have everything that I need to get started, but the head of public relations at my company, Emily Carter, has told me otherwise.

Which is why I’m here, apparently.

I pause, my hand on the worn wood of the door. It's almost quaint, if you're into that sort of thing. Which I'm not.

"From penthouse to outhouse," I mutter, pushing open the door to my new satellite office. Welcome to Day 1 in my own personal hell.

I step inside and immediately wrinkle my nose at the musty smell. This place is a far cry from our sleek Norfolk headquarters. I glance around the cramped space, taking in the mismatched furniture and outdated decor. A map of Greenwood Hollow hangs crookedly on one wall, the proposed pipeline route marked in angry red.

I close my eyes, picturing our Norfolk high-rise. Floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the harbor, ergonomic furniture, state-of-the-art technology at every turn. The contrast is stark enough to give me whiplash.

I make my way to the back room, which is apparently supposed to serve as my office. I slump into a creaky chair behind a weathered desk, sighing dramatically.

My gaze drifts to the window, taking in the view of Main Street. Greenwood Hollow is picture-perfect, like a postcard from a bygone era. The main street is a charming lineup of mom-and-pop stores, the kind where they still know customers by name. There's a convenience store with a sign boasting "The Best Beef Jerky in Town," which I haven't yet had the pleasure—or misfortune—of verifying.

As if on cue, a group of protesters marches by, their tie-dyed shirts and protest signs a jarring contrast to the town's wholesome aesthetic. The Earth Defenders are the ones leading the charge, letting me know that they do not want the pipeline to start here or anywhere.

I lean back in the chair, wincing as it creaks ominously. Things have gotten so bad that my PR manager, Emily Carter, told me I need to set up a satellite office here to show face. I can practically hear Emily's crisp, no-nonsense tone in my head.

"So that you're not just some big mean corporate tycoon trying to take their land and set it on fire."

A wry smile tugs at my lips. I mean, that is sort of what I'm trying to do, but whatever. I'll do what Emily tells me to do. She's scary when she's in full PR mode, all sharp blue eyes and perfectly tailored suits. Plus, she's usually right, damn her.

The door swings open with an urgency that suggests either impending doom or the arrival of Jason Whitaker, my CFO and harbinger of all things financially foreboding. I don't even need to look up from the scuffed surface of what passes for a desk in this quaint excuse for an office.

"Lawrence, you're not going to believe this," Jason announces in his signature tone, the one that straddles the line between excitement and the prelude to a migraine. His salt-and-pepper hair seems more salt than usual, a testament to the stress of our latest venture.

"Try me, Jay." I lean back in my chair, which groans under the strain. "It's been a day of unbelievable sights. I mean, who knew so much wood paneling still existed in the wild?"

He adjusts his glasses with a practiced motion, the thin rims catching the weak light filtering through the window as if underscoring his meticulous nature. "Billy Hargraves is going to be at the country club tonight."

I blink, then allow a grin to spread across my face, slow and predatory. "Billy Hargraves? Here? In Podunk, USA?" My humor is momentarily eclipsed by the glint of opportunity. "That's fantastic work, Jason."

"Thought you might think so," he replies, the corners of his mouth twitching in what I assume is his version of a smile. It is as rare as it is understated.

"Plan on being there tonight?" I ask, already knowing the answer. Jason wouldn't miss an opportunity to rub elbows with potential investors, especially ones with the clout of Billy Hargraves.

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