Page 117 of Love so Hot

I put the shirt inside the suitcase. It’s decided then. I’ll go back to them, to my family’s empire of glass and steel. Maybe I can be the wrench in their works, turn things around. Make things better.

"Who knows?" I say, glancing at the TV. "Stranger things have happened."

I toss the rest of my few things into the suitcase and zip it up. I grab the handle, ready to wheel it out. But something makes me pause, a sudden shift in the anchor’s tone, a ripple of urgency that breaks through the monotony. My hand lets go of the suitcase, and I turn to look at the screen.

"Stay tuned for the upcoming press conference regarding Sinclair Shipping's response to the recent pipeline incident," the anchor says, and I can feel my heartbeat kick up a notch.

I stare at the television, a knot forming in my stomach. The press conference is about to start, the one where Larry’s company will address the pipeline. After the explosion, the world’s eyes are on Sinclair Shipping, waiting for answers. I don’t want to watch, to hear excuses or justifications, but something keeps me rooted to the spot.

"Come on," I mutter to myself, willing the broadcast to begin so I can get it over with. "Just rip off the band-aid."

Thinking of Larry tugs at my heartstrings. The way he broke down in front of me at the oak tree. Shared vulnerabilities about his past with me.

Told me he loved me.

I wish he hadn’t. Because if he hadn’t, then I wouldn’t have to face the very real truth that I love him too.

And grapple with the fact that I love a man who stands for everything I’ve dedicated my life to fighting against.

"Contradiction, thy name is love," I whisper, shaking my head.

As I sit down on the living room sofa, the murmurs from the TV grow louder, more agitated. There’s confusion on the stage, people milling about like they’ve lost their script. No sign of Larry yet.

"Should’ve started by now," I note, the knot in my gut tightening.

My hands are trembling, and I hate that I’m so affected by this. I turn to the screen, trying to make sense of the chaos unfolding before the cameras.

"Where are you, Larry?" I say under my breath, fear creeping in. Something’s not right; I can feel it in my bones.

"Get on with it already," I snap at the TV, though I’m not sure if I’m talking to the flustered PR team or urging Larry to appear and dispel the growing dread inside me. My eyes are glued to the scene, bracing for whatever comes next.

Finally, someone comes across the stage. I squint at the screen, expecting to see Larry’s familiar red hair and that confident stride he uses like armor. Instead, an older blonde woman walks across the stage. I recognize her as Larry’s PR manager. My heart skips. Why isn’t he there?

"Emily?" I mutter, my voice barely a whisper against the hum of the TV.

She glances around, her eyes betraying a hint of nervousness. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I’ve seen enough people bluff to recognize it. She’s worried about something too.

"Come on, Emily. Spill it," I urge quietly, leaning forward.

My mind races through possibilities of where Larry could be, none of them good.

Is he hurt? Sick? Or worse, has he done something rash, something impulsive in the wake of the explosion? That temper of his could be his downfall, and I can’t bear the thought.

"Damn it," I curse softly, the anxiety clawing up my throat.

I stand abruptly, then sit again, restless energy coursing through me. I’m supposed to leave, to get away from all this, but here I am, tethered to the spot by concern for a man who’s probably too stubborn to admit if he’s in trouble.

"Please be okay," I plead to the universe or to Larry himself, whoever’s listening.

The scene cuts from the anchor, who is giving a play-by-play of the crowd’s confusion, to Emily, who clears her throat and starts to speak.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Willow

My stomach doessomersaults as I watch Emily unfold the crisp white paper on the TV screen. The room feels like it's closing in on me, the air thick with tension. Where the hell is Larry? I can't believe he'd send his PR manager to do his dirty work. That's not like him.

Emily's face fills the screen, her sharp blue eyes scanning the room before she begins to speak. My fingers tighten around the remote, my knuckles whitening, contrasting with the relentless thumping of my heart.