Page 39 of Love so Hot

There's a pause, papers shuffling. "What can I do for you, Mr. Sinclair?"

Pleasantries dispensed with, time to lay my cards on the table. "I've got a proposition for you. It involves your designs and a certain determined environmentalist who thinks you're the second coming of Coco Chanel."

"I'm listening," Marco prompts, interest piqued.

"Let's just say I want to make a statement," I say, keeping it vague. "One that aligns with certain... convictions. And I think your fashion could be the megaphone."

"Intriguing." Marco's voice holds a hint of curiosity now. "Are we talking one showstopper or a full wardrobe overhaul?"

"Let's start with one. Something bespoke. Something that speaks volumes without uttering a damn word."

"Mr. Sinclair, you've hooked me. Let's talk details."

I grin, feeling the thrill of a new deal being struck. This isn't just about throwing Willow a bone; it's about showing her I can play her game and win.

"Perfect." I lean back against the wall, ready to dive into the shark tank of negotiations. "Here's what I've got brewing in my evil corporate mind...I want something that'll knock Willow off her Birkenstocks. Something sustainable, edgy, but classy."

"Willow? As in the Earth Defenders' founder?" Marco's voice perks up.

"The one and only," I confirm. "You know her?"

"Know her? Christ, anyone in this business who hasn't been living under a rock knows Willow." There's a pregnant pause on the line. "Hold up. Aren't you the guy she's been trying to crucify over that pipeline? Why the hell are you playing fairy godmother to her wardrobe?"

I force out a laugh that's about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. "Yeah, that's me, public enemy number one. But we've reached a... let's call it a détente. Trying to find that sweet spot between saving trees and keeping the lights on.”

Marco hesitates, probably wondering if he's being punked. "Alright, I'll bite. What's your vision? And please tell me we're talking more than just one piece. If it's for Willow, it's worth going all out."

I run a hand through my hair. "Look, I'll be honest. When it comes to my own fashion, I'm more interested in the label than how it's made. But that's not her and that's why I'm calling you. But I know it needs to be a statement."

"Statement, got it. How about we start with something made from recycled ocean plastic? It's on-brand for her Earth Defender schtick," Marco suggests.

"Ocean plastic, huh?" I tap a pen against my desk, ideas starting to percolate. "Yeah, that could work. But it needs to be more... Willow. Can we work in something that screams 'I chain myself to endangered trees for fun'? Like, I don't know, a print inspired by some obscure species she's probably camped out to save?"

"Custom print, check. We can make that happen," Marco replies, enthusiasm cranked up to eleven. "We'll use eco-friendly inks, of course. Can't have her breaking out in hives from hypocrisy."

"Perfect. And make it something she can actually move in. Willow's not exactly the stand-still-and-look-pretty type." The image of her marching at a protest, eyes blazing like green infernos, flashes through my mind. "She needs to be able to scale a redwood at a moment's notice."

"Comfort, got it. I'm thinking flowing silhouette, maybe some layers for depth. We can put together a digital lookbook for her to choose from, all tailored to her eco-warrior

aesthetics," Marco offers.

"Lookbook, yes. Do that." My head's buzzing with ideas now, plans forming like a corporate takeover strategy. "I'll email you some other nuggets to work with. Can you have something ready for a fitting and shoot by next week? I'm working on a tight schedule here."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Marco confirms, sounding like he's already sketching.

"Thanks," I say, hanging up before he can change his mind.

I scribble down notes like a madman, then grab my laptop and start stalking Willow's social media like a desperate ex. Photos of her at rallies, selfies from some godforsaken campsite, even those candid shots where she's oblivious to the camera—they all tell me something about her style. It's earthy, practical, with a dash of whimsy that's pure Willow. A walking contradiction, just like the woman herself.

I stumble on a post where she's wearing a dress, simple but plastered with a bold pattern of tangled vines and leaves. Her smile is genuine, carefree. That's the look I'm gunning for—the Willow who's not sizing me up like her next takedown target.

I fire off an email to Marco with the photo attached. "Something in this ballpark," I type. "But cranked up to eleven. She's about to go from tree-hugger to spotlight-stealer, after all."

It's stupid o'clock when I finally shut down the laptop. I stand, stretching out kinks I didn't even know I had. This is good, I think. Not just a potential olive branch, but a chance to crack the Willow code. For the first time since this crazy charade kicked off, I'm actually looking forward to seeing her reaction. Who knew playing dress-up could be such a rush?

Chapter Nineteen

Lawrence

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