Page 48 of Love so Hot

As we step into the restaurant, the maître d' leads us to a secluded corner where Mr. Rothburg and his team are already seated. I plaster on my most charming smile, feeling Willow's hand slip into mine. It's warm and surprisingly soft for someone who spends so much time scaling trees.

"Mr. Rothburg," I greet, extending my free hand. "Allow me to introduce my fiancée, Willow Harper."

Mr. Rothburg's eyebrows shoot up so fast I'm worried they might fly off his forehead. "Fiancée? Well, I'll be damned, Sinclair. I didn't know you were engaged."

I chuckle, giving Willow's hand a squeeze. "What can I say? I'm full of surprises. But we haven't formally announced it yet. That's forthcoming."

As we take our seats, I launch into my pitch. "Willow here is an environmental expert. Her insights have been invaluable to our project planning."

I'm not lying – her insights have been invaluable. Just not in the way I'm implying. But hey, what Mr. Rothburg doesn't know won't hurt him, right?

As the appetizers arrive, Willow chimes in. "The pipeline's routing through the Appalachian region presents unique challenges," she says, her voice smooth and professional. "The varying elevations and soil compositions require specialized engineering solutions."

I blink, surprised. Where did she learn all this?

Mr. Rothburg leans forward, clearly intrigued. "Go on, Ms. Harper. What kind of solutions are we looking at?"

As Willow delves into a detailed explanation of pressure regulation systems and erosion control measures, I can't help but feel a mix of admiration and unease. She's good. Too good.

I take a sip of water, trying to quell the nagging feeling in my gut. This is what we wanted, isn't it? To impress them? So why do I feel like I'm losing control of the situation?

Suddenly, Willow's tone shifts. Her eyes spark with that familiar fire I've come to both admire and dread. "However," she says, her voice taking on a passionate edge, "we can't ignore the potential ecological risks."

Oh no. Here we go.

"The pipeline's path intersects with several delicate ecosystems," Willow continues, her hands moving animatedly. "There's the matter of habitat fragmentation for local wildlife, particularly the endangered Virginia big-eared bat."

I glance around the table, noticing the executives' faces tightening. Mr. Rothburg's smile has become fixed, his eyebrows drawing together slightly.

Willow, oblivious to the changing atmosphere, presses on. "Not to mention the potential for groundwater contamination. The karst topography in this region makes it particularly vulnerable to?—"

I clear my throat, hoping to derail this runaway train of environmental concerns. "Willow, darling, perhaps we should?—"

But she's on a roll now, her dark green hair catching the light as she leans forward, eyes blazing. "We're talking about irreversible damage to ancient forest ecosystems. The carbon footprint alone?—"

The CFO's fork clatters against his plate, making me wince. Mr. Rothburg's lips have thinned to a barely visible line.

I'm torn between admiration for Willow's passion and sheer panic. Part of me wants to high-five her for speaking truth to power. The other part wants to crawl under the table and hide.

Instead, I plaster on my best corporate smile and reach for the wine. Something tells me we're going to need it.

As I refill my glass, I catch Mr. Rothburg's eye. His expression is a mix of polite interest and growing discomfort. Great. Just great.

Willow's voice rises with enthusiasm. "And let's not forget the impact on local communities. The noise pollution alone during construction?—"

That's it. I can't let this go on. My career, my company, this entire deal is circling the drain with every impassioned word from my fake fiancée's mouth.

I set down my glass with a bit more force than necessary. "I think what my lovely fiancée is trying to say," I interject, my tone dripping with false sweetness, "is that we're committed to a thorough environmental review process. Isn't that right, honey?"

Willow turns to me, her green eyes widening in surprise. "Well, actually?—"

"Of course it is," I plow on, not giving her a chance to speak. "We all know how important these considerations are. Now, about those profit projections for Q3..."

I can feel Willow's glare burning into the side of my head. If looks could kill, I'd be six feet under, pushing up environmentally friendly daisies. But the executives visibly relax, nodding along as I steer the conversation back to safer waters.

Sorry, Mother Nature. You'll have to take one for the team tonight.

The rest of the dinner drags on like a particularly tedious root canal. Willow sits beside me, a statue carved from ice. Her earlier enthusiasm has been replaced by a silence so cold it could probably reverse global warming single-handedly. Every now and then, I catch her stabbing her salad with unnecessary vigor. Poor lettuce. What did it ever do to deserve such wrath?

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