Chapter 4 Lawrence
I lean back in my creaky office chair, feet propped on the desk, staring out the tiny window that might as well be a porthole to hippie-ville. Directly across the street sits Mrs. Sullivan's flower shop, all quaint and charming with its pastel-painted facade and window boxes bursting with cheerful blooms. Give me a break.
Apparently, that place is like Mecca for the eco-hippies. I roll my eyes. Mrs. Sullivan, the so-called "oracle" of the Earth Defenders. Not officially one of them, but might as well be their spiritual guru or whatever. I can practically smell the patchouli from here.
But then I spot her through the window—Willow Harper. And suddenly, I'm sitting up straighter, squinting to get a better look. Damn, that girl's been stuck in my head ever since Jason showed me that picture of her. She's arranging a bouquet, her aqua-green hair falling in waves around her face, those piercing green eyes focused intently on her work.
She's pretty in a boho sort of way. Definitely not my usual type. I mean, the girls I typically go for are more... well, high- maintenance. Designer clothes, perfect hair, manicured nails. Willow looks like she just rolled out of a Volkswagen bus. And yet...
Maybe it's time to expand my palate. Just because I'm a steak guy doesn't mean I can't try a veggie burger once in a while, right?
I chuckle at my own joke, but my eyes are still fixed on Willow. There's something about her—a fire, a passion—that's undeniably intriguing. Plus, getting close to her could give me valuable intel on the Earth Defenders. Two birds, one stone.
My eyes narrow as I watch River walk into the shop. Despite what Emily tells me, it's obvious there's something between those two. I keep telling myself that my interest in Willow is motivated solely by trying to break up their little duo. If I break them up, then the likely outcome is to break up the Earth Defenders.
"Yeah, that's definitely the only reason," I mutter sarcastically to myself, rolling my eyes at my own lame justification.
I lean forward, peering through the window. River's animated gestures catch my eye immediately. His choppy, blue-tinted hair bounces as he waves his arms, face contorted in what looks like anger.
"Well, well, looks like trouble in hippie paradise," I smirk, feeling a surge of satisfaction.
But then my gaze shifts to Willow, and my smirk fades. She's hunched over, aqua-green hair falling forward to partially obscure her face. Even from here, I can see the sheen of tears in her eyes.
"Damn it," I growl, surprised by the twinge of... something... in my chest. "Why does she have to look so... so..."
I can't find the right word. Vulnerable? Hurt? Beautiful?
"Get it together, man," I chastise myself. "Remember the plan. This is about breaking up the Earth Defenders, not... whatever this is."
But as I watch Willow's shoulders shake slightly, I can't help but feel a nagging desire to march over there and... what? Comfort her? Punch River? Both?
"This is going to be more complicated than I thought," I sigh, running a hand through my hair.
Suddenly, River storms out of the shop, his face a mask of fury. He stomps down Main Street like a toddler having a tantrum. I can't help but snort.
"And they say I have anger issues," I mutter, tapping my fingers on the desk. At least I don't look like an overgrown chia pet when I'm pissed.
Inside the shop, Mrs. Sullivan emerges from the back, her silver hair gleaming under the soft lights. She approaches Willow, placing a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder. I can't hear what's being said, but the older woman's expression is gentle, motherly.
Probably filling her head with more tree-hugging nonsense. But there's less venom in the thought than usual.
After a few moments, Willow nods and stands up. She wipes her eyes and moves to a nearby display, starting to arrange a bouquet of wildflowers. Her movements are graceful, almost mesmerizing.
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.
"Enjoy the flowers," Mrs. Sullivan calls out from somewhere behind a wall of hanging ferns, her tone suggesting she knows exactly what's going on.
"Oh, I will," I assure her, the bouquet feeling oddly heavy in my hands as I make my exit, the stupid chime mocking me on the way out.