Page 8 of Love so Hot

I catch myself leaning closer to the window and jerk back, scowling. "What the hell am I doing?"

My fingers drum an agitated rhythm on the desk as I debate with myself. Should I go over there? And if I do, what's my angle?

"I could... apologize for yesterday," I muse aloud. "No, that's ridiculous. I don't apologize."

I glance at the clock, then back at Willow. Maybe I need flowers for... something. The office? Mom's birthday?

I laugh because I don't have a mother.

I groan, realizing how pathetic I sound. Since when do I need an excuse to go anywhere?

But still, I hesitate, caught between the urge to act and the nagging voice telling me this is a bad idea.

"Screw it," I finally decide, standing up. I'm Lawrence freaking Sinclair. I do what I want.

I stride across the street with my usual confident swagger, but as I reach for the door of the shop, I falter for a split second. A small part of me wonders if what I want might be more complicated than I'm ready to admit. Shaking off the momentary hesitation, I push inside.

A tinny chime announces my arrival, and I wince at the sound. "Could that be any more obnoxious?" I mutter under my breath.

The shop is a riot of colors and scents, floral displays covering every available surface. For a moment, I'm overwhelmed, my eyes darting around trying to locate Willow. It takes me embarrassingly long to spot her; she's so seamlessly blended with the greenery that she could be a flower herself.

When I finally see her, my breath catches in my throat. Up close, Willow is even more striking than I'd realized. Her aqua-green hair falls in soft waves around her face, making her eyes—a shade of green that puts the surrounding foliage to shame—pop. She's wearing some kind of flowing, tie-dyed dress that should look ridiculous but somehow suits her perfectly.

"Damn,"I think, surprised by my own reaction."She's... beautiful."

I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. "Well, if it isn't Greenwood Hollow's very own flower child," I drawl, aiming for my usual sarcastic tone but falling short.

Willow looks up, her serene expression instantly replaced by wariness. "Mr. Sinclair," she says coolly. "What an... unexpected surprise."

I can't help but smirk at her obvious discomfort. "Come now, surely we can be on a first-name basis? After all, we're practically neighbors."

Willow's eyes narrow slightly, but her voice remains polite. "What can I help you with today?"

"I need a bouquet," I reply, leaning casually against the counter. "Something... celebratory."

She nods, professional mask firmly in place. "And what's the occasion?"

This is the moment I've been waiting for. I grin, relishing the anticipation. "Oh, didn't you hear? We're breaking ground on the pipeline tomorrow. Thought I'd commemorate the occasion."

The effect is instantaneous. Willow's calm demeanor cracks, her green eyes flashing with anger. For a split second, I think she might actually throw something at me. But she takes a deep breath, visibly restraining herself.

"I see," she says, her voice tight. "Well, let me put something together for you."

As she moves among the flowers, selecting stems with quick, efficient movements, I can't help but admire her composure. Most people would've blown up at me by now. She probably reads self-help books about emotional regulation on her lunch breaks.

"Nice weather we're having, huh?" I try, aiming for nonchalance. I'm rewarded with silence and the continued rhythm of her work: snip, arrange, snip.

"Bet it's great for the flowers," I push on, enjoying the game more than I should.

"Your total," she says instead of answering, thrusting the finished bouquet at me with a force that suggests she'd rather be tossing it into a compost heap. It's beautiful despite her anger, and that only annoys me more because now I can't even hate it properly.

I hand over my Black Amex, the card as sleek and impersonal as I feel amidst this verdant chaos. She swipes it with a flick of her wrist, avoiding eye contact.

"Thanks for your... business," she mutters, the sarcasm sweet as honey and just as sticky.

"Anytime," I respond, the edges of my lips curling up in what I imagine is my most infuriating smile.

The register dings, and before I can concoct another line to keep her near, she's gone—a wisp of aqua green disappearing into the back room, leaving me with nothing but the scent of fresh earth and a grudging respect for her restraint.

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