Page 17 of Love so Hot

I'm not above a little self-pampering and this bathroom was made for it. The marble tiles are cool underfoot, which feels good against the warmth still lingering on my skin from the day's sun. Chrome fixtures wink at me from every corner, and the freestanding tub looks like it could double as a small swimming pool. But it’s the shower that calls my name—a glass enclosure, rainforest showerhead promising a deluge fit for a king. Or, you know, a ruthless businessman with a knack for ruffling feathers.

As I step in, the first drops of water are a shock to the system, quickly giving way to soothing rivulets. Midway between contemplating whether I need a loofah in my life and the exact temperature at which water becomes too hot, my phone starts its insistent ding from the pocket of my discarded pants. Of course. Can't even take a shower without the world demanding a piece of Lawrence Sinclair.

I snatch the device before the screen gets fogged up. Balancing it on the edge of the shower bench, I watch as notifications pop up, safe from the spray. I swipe through, half-expecting some new crisis or scandal. Instead, it's just the usual suspects, probably wondering if I've been run out of town by the locals yet.

Roman

Tree-hugger takedown, Sinclair-style!

The text from Roman Kingsley appears first, grinning emoji and all.

I roll my eyes but can't suppress a smirk as the water cascades down, washing off the remnants of the day's confrontation. Leave it to Roman, with his shaggy blond hair that never seems combed and his wardrobe that looks like he raided a thrift store in the dark, to turn my standoff into comedygold. Classic Roman—can always count on him for levity, no matter the situation.

Sebastian

Did you give her the 'Sinclair scowl' or the 'Boardroom glare'?

Sebastian Quin chimes in now, his words a precise jab, just like everything else about him—from his meticulously styled black hair to his minimalist, almost futuristic fashion sense. Always the analyst, Seb would rather dissect my facial expressions than discuss the real issue at hand.

Lawrence

Neither.

I reserve those for board meetings and persistent salespeople.

Victor Stone's message pops up next, his blue eyes probably narrowing.

Victor

Sure she wasn't swayed by your charm offensive, Larry?

His tone is even, measured, a rock amidst our chaotic foursome of foster brothers who once shared bunk beds and dreams of getting out of the system.

Lawrence

Charm is for clients and dates, Vic. Not eco-warriors perched in trees.

And don't call me Larry. You know I hate that nickname.

I can practically hear Victor's dry chuckle through the screen.

The three of them, my unlikely brothers, know every play in my book. We'd all been dealt a rough hand early on, shuffled from one foster home to another until fate landed us together. From there, we clawed our way up, determined not to let our past define us. Boston was our proving ground; Giovanni Maldonado's empire, our training arena. And when the old man decided Miami's sun was more appealing than Boston's blizzards, we each snagged a piece of the pie and never looked back.

Roman

Sinclair's going soft, protecting Mother Nature now?

Roman teases further, and I can feel the grin on his face as if he's right here in this bathroom instead of wherever his latest impulse has taken him.

Lawrence

Only thing I'm protecting is my investment.

And my sanity.

Sebastian

Good luck with the latter.

---