Page 105 of Love so Hot

My desk is clutteredwith blueprints and financial statements. I rub my eyes, trying to focus on the numbers dancing before me. Since Willow left, the days just seem to drag at the office now. It's like whatever purpose I used to have here feels hollow.

Today feels especially empty. It's the day we break ground on the pipeline. I spoke with Emily and she said that we should not make a big deal of this. No ribbon cutting ceremony, no photo-ops. Just a quiet start to the work and hopefully there wont be large protests.

I wasn't going to argue with her. The idea of doing a photo-op or holding big scissors right now is nauseating.

I'm staring at a mountain of paperwork, wondering if I can "accidentally" spill my coffee on it and call it a day, when Jason bursts into my office like a bull in a china shop. His usually impeccable hair is slightly disheveled, and his glasses are askew. I've never seen him look so frazzled.

"Lawrence," he says, voice grave, "there's been an explosion."

My pen clatters to the desk. "What? Where?"

"The pipeline site," he says, pulling off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.

I push back from the desk, a cold knot forming in my stomach. "What happened?"

"Media's all over it," Jason continues, his face grim. "They're saying it was sabotage. An environmentalist group. Happened during the night.”

"Environmentalists?" The room feels suddenly too warm, too small. My thoughts race to Willow. Could she really be mixed up in something like this? Violence was never her answer. She'd said it many times.

"Could be Earth Defenders," he adds, scanning the tablet in his hand. "But it's still early days."

"Damn it," I mutter, pacing now. "Any word on injuries?"

He hesitates, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. "Yes," he mutters, tapping the tablet screen and scrolling through the chaos of updates and live feeds. "Several taken to the hospital."

My hands clench into fists at my sides. I lean in, urgency gnawing at my insides. "Willow?"

Jason shakes his head. "I don't know. They haven't released names."

"Are they at the hospital?" I grab my keys from my desk, heart hammering so loud it drowns out the hum of the office air conditioning.

"Who?"

"Anyone injured," I say in a rushed tone. I try to sound concerned about our workers, but really, I'm thinking about one specific, infuriating woman.

"Yes." His voice is flat, clinical.

My thoughts tumble over one another. Willow, hurt, maybe worse. And here I am, trapped in an office that suddenly feels like a cage.

"Lawrence." Jason's voice is sharp, snapping me back. "We need to think about damage control. This could be catastrophic for the project."

"Fuck damage control," I say to him.

"Lawrence..." Jason starts, but I'm already halfway to the door. "Lawrence, wait!" Jason's voice follows me. "What about the investors? A press conference?"

I pause, one hand on the doorknob. For a split second, I see two versions of myself: the cutthroat CEO focused on damage control, and the man who's inexplicably, infuriatingly worried about a stubborn activist who probably hates his guts.

"Tell them..." I struggle to find the right words. "Tell them I'm personally investigating the situation. I'll be back as soon as I can. Keep me updated," I call over my shoulder. I have to see her, have to know she's okay. Because despite everything, Willow Harper matters to me – more than any pipeline or profit margin ever could.

I let my office door slams behind me, Jason's voice fading into nothing. I'm moving on autopilot, my mind a whirlwind of dread. Down the sterile corporate hallway, my steps echo too loud in the emptiness.

I burst through the lobby, ignoring the startled looks from the reception desk. The sliding doors can't open fast enough as I shoulder my way through, my pulse pounding in sync with the throb of panic tightening around my chest.

The parking lot is a concrete sea but my car's in sight. I jam my finger into the ignition button, and the engine roars to life, a growl that doesn't match the cold fear clawing at my insides.

"Come on, come on," I mutter, tapping the steering wheel as if it'll make the traffic light change faster. It finally blinks green, and I'm off.

But the drive to the hospital is a special kind of torture. I'm pretty sure I've aged about ten years in the last fifteen minutes. The roads are clogged, choked with rubberneckers hungry for a glimpse of the chaos broadcasted live across every news channel. They don't know Willow. They don't understand that every second they gawk is a second she could be alone, maybe scared, definitely hurt.