Page 33 of Love so Hot

"Thank you," I reply, my voice dripping with mock gratitude.

With another frustrated run of his hand through his perfectly combed hair, he turns on his heel and strides out, his suit whispering threats as he goes.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and glance around the kitchen—his kitchen—that now feels more like a glossy showroom than a place of warmth and sustenance. Doubts gnaw at me, chewing through my resolve. Was there another way? Could I have dodged that mandatory minimum sentence without falling into this farce?

"Maybe I could've called family..." I mutter to myself, but I immediately push the thought out of my mind. No, that bridge was burnt to ashes long ago. There's only forward now, even if it means wading through this swamp of pretense.

Shaking off the cobwebs of doubt, I approach the fridge, hoping for a distraction in the form of breakfast. The stainless-steel behemoth gleams smugly, as if it knows it's about to disappoint me. And oh, does it deliver—swing open the door and what greets me? Meat. Cheese. An entire cold-cut gallery of animal parts.

"Gross," I grumble, slamming the fridge shut a touch too hard. Who knew freedom would taste so much like preservatives and despair?

I lean against the counter, considering my options. Maybe I'll find a loaf of bread in one of these cabinets and call it a meal. Or maybe I'll just chew on my principles for sustenance. They're certainly tough enough to pass for jerky.

Chapter Sixteen

Willow

I’m alonein Sinclair's fortress of a house. It’s got that polished, everything-in-its-place vibe that sets my teeth on edge. I wander the halls, pretending like I've got a right to be here, which, technically, I do. He asked me to stay, didn't he? But not for this. Not for snooping.

"Alright, let's see what skeletons Mr. High-and-Mighty's got stashed," I mutter to myself.

The door to his office creaks open under my hand. Bingo. Books line the walls—law, business, some old classics. They're all perfectly aligned, no dog-eared pages in sight. The air smells like leather and that cologne he wears—sharp, like it’s trying to cover up something else.

I inch toward the desk, feeling like I’m crossing into enemy territory. My fingers brush over the surface, smooth and cold. There’s a laptop, closed. Some fancy pen set. A stack of papers neatly squared off to the side. I hesitate, then flip through them.

"Pipeline plans, budgets... Where's the dirt, Larry?" I whisper to the silence.

I pull open a drawer—more papers, a couple of those stress balls he probably squeezes the life out of when things get heated. Typical stuff. But then something catches my eye: a photo. It’s of a group of kids, scrappy looking, with Larry smack in the middle, smiling like he hasn’t learned to be suspicious of the world yet. Something twinges inside me, but I shake it off.

My hand dives for the next drawer when the doorbell rings—a sharp, echoing chime that jolts through the quiet. My heart slams against my ribs.

"Shoot!"

I snap the drawer shut and my head whips around as if the walls might’ve grown eyes. What if it's him? What if he's back early?

Then I remind myself to chill. I've faced down bulldozers. I can handle a doorbell.

I take a deep breath and tiptoe out of the office, closing the door with a soft click behind me. Maybe it's just a package. Or maybe it's someone who actually knows how to knock on a door without making it sound like a death knell.

"Coming!" I call out, clearing my throat, trying to sound like I own the place. My footsteps echo as I make my way toward the unexpected interruption.

I bolt down the stairs, heart still going full throttle. The last thing I need is Larry catching me with my nose where it doesn't belong. I reach the bottom step, pivot, and head for the door.

I remind myself to keep my cool. No one is in the house. No one knows I was in his office.

My brain suggests that maybe Larry has hidden cameras and he's sent his security team to the house, but I push it aside.

The bell chimes again, urgent.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" I call out, though my voice is shakier than I'd like.

I fling open the door, bracing myself for whoever—or whatever—I might find. There, standing on the porch, is a delivery person holding a garment bag and an assortment of boxes that scream expensive.

"Delivery for..." he hesitates, and I already know what's coming. "A weeping willow?" he asks, eyeing me curiously. He probably didn't expect someone who looks like she just came from a sit-in at an oil rig.

I fume at Larry's use of the nickname. "Uh, yeah, that's me." I fumble for some semblance of authority and fail spectacularly.

"Where do you want this stuff?"

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