Page 29 of Love so Hot

I cross my arms, intent on revisiting this subject later. He can’t keep me prisoner here. I’ll sneak out of this stupid mansion and walk all the way to Main Street if I have to.

"Public perception is key," he continues, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

"Right. Because nothing says 'genuine love' like a staged photo op." My voice drips with derision, but it doesn't faze him.

"Exactly." He nods, missing—or ignoring—the irony. "You'll need to look the part, Willow. We're having you fitted for a new wardrobe and you’ll attend etiquette training-"

"Etiquette training?" I interrupt, snorting into the glass I haven't bothered to sip. "You're joking."

He fixes me with a stare that could cut diamond. "I'm dead serious."

"Of course you are." I roll my eyes, setting the untouched drink on an end table. "Because nothing screams 'free spirit environmentalist' like a designer dress and a lesson in which fork to use for my salad."

"Salad fork. It's called a salad fork," he corrects, and I imagine using said fork to poke him in the eye.

"Listen, Larry, if you think?—"

"If you argue with me on this," he interjects, the edge in his voice sharper than any utensil, "I'll scrap this entire façade and have you back behind bars before you can say 'compostable cutlery.'"

My mouth snaps shut, the retort dying on my lips. The threat hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable. I hate that he has this power over me, that my freedom is tangled up in his tailored suits and corporate machinations.

"Fine," I concede, the word tasting like vinegar as it escapes me. "What else?"

"Don't call me Larry."

I roll my eyes. "Is that all?"

"Of course not. Now, back to making this believable." He approaches, invading my space, and my spine stiffens in response. "You will behave appropriately. Hand holding, affectionate glances, the whole nine yards."

"I'm not kissing you."

His expression darkens, and it's clear he isn't amused.

"Willow, I'm not above calling your bluff." His voice is low, menacing.

"Fine," I repeat, hating how the word feels like surrender. "But don't expect me to enjoy it."

"Enjoyment isn't a prerequisite," he says dryly, then turns away, leaving me to stew in a concoction of irritation and begrudging compliance.

I eye Larry, deciding that I am definitely calling him that from now on, both in my head and to his face. It's the one bit of defiance I can hold onto, because I doubt he'll ship me back to jail just for that. At least I hope he won't.

"I don't know where you think we can meet in the middle on this," I start, voice dripping with disdain, "because I'm not here to sell my body or my soul for your little performance."

He leans back against the wet bar, an eyebrow arching with that infuriating charisma of his. "A compromise then," he suggests, the word rolling off his tongue like it's dipped in honey and vinegar at the same time.

"Compromise," I echo, letting the syllables hang between us, thick with skepticism. But deep down, I know I'm cornered. With a huff, I nod once, tight-lipped. "Let's hear it."

"Good," Lawrence says, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Hand-holding and affectionate touches and glances in public. Occasional pecks on the cheek. No kissing on the lips required."

"Way to make me feel like a hired woman."

"Oh, so you want kissing on the lips, then? It can be arranged."

Rolling my eyes, I cross my arms over my chest. "I'm good, thanks. That all works, I guess. My turn now."

He raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of his drink, but doesn't say anything.

"This house," I wave a hand around the opulent foyer, "I want a separate bedroom. There's no way I'm sharing a space with you."

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