Page 2 of Imperfect Arrangement
Her grandfather had set the scene for this whole mess, writing up his first will with the coveted land going to his brother, Gio’s grandfather. But then the family had a falling out, and instead of fixing his mistake right then, Willow’s grandfather waited too long. By the time he intended to update his will, dementia had already started stealing his mind. The entire town knows about it.
“This document proves my grandfather was of sound mind when he updated his will,” she reiterates as if I didn’t hear her the first time. “And his doctors would happily testify to that if we end up in court.” Her tone is steel, sharp enough to cut through glass—and my objections, if I dared to voice them.
But I’m not an ordinary businessman. My tolerance for failure is right there at the bottom of the ocean with my tolerance for lies and incompetence. I also didn’t become one of the country’s top hoteliers by taking words at face value. I know how to watch what lies beneath them.
And right now, Willow’s pulse is racing, her fingers trembling slightly under the glass table between us. For all her bravado, she believes her claim about as much as she’d believe the earth is flat.
I open my mouth, ready to call out her pile of nonsense. But something tugs at me, tight in my chest, dulling that edge of satisfaction I’d usually feel right about now. She affects me in ways I don’t have the words for.
Clearing my throat, I lean back. “Is that optimism talking, or did you actually consult a lawyer?”
Her victorious grin slips, and I hate the downturn of her lips, but she schools her features fast.
If I’m getting more and more affected by Willow Pershing, she’s wearing her immunity to me like armor these days, batting back my every little dig with ease.
She rests her hands on the table, fingers laced together. My gaze drifts, almost on its own, over the thin metallic rings on her fingers. I stop for a beat, like always, at the silver bracelet with a small sunflower hanging from a loop, then traverse my gaze up, following the black vines of tattoos that climb from her wrists to disappear beneath the straps of her sundress. Every time I see those intricate lines, I get the insatiable urge to know the story behind each curl, each line, each colorful bloom. That nonsensical part of my brain has latched on to this idea that everything about Willow has a reason.
“I haven’t consulted a lawyer, but I know it’s worth something.” Her voice pulls me back from my distracted spiral.
I refocus, straightening the vase of summer flowers on the table. Anything to keep my expression neutral, and to pretend Willow Pershing doesn’t have me this disturbed.
“For someone on the verge of losing something so crucial, you surprise me, Miss Pershing.” I do my best to keep my real thoughts locked down.
“That’s because, unlike you, I still believe there’s room for an amicable solution.” Despite her words, her tone is sharp.
Amicable? Did she really just say that?
That’s not the A-word I’d use for us. Animosity fits much better.
Our relationship—business relationship, I mean—has been a tug-of-war. The kind that usually ends with one side dragging the other through the mud. I can’t remember the last time I spent this much energy dancing around a business deal. Usually, I’d be laying out my terms with a flat palm on the table and a firm statement of my position. But none of my past opponents had a mind like hers—or looked anything like this particular spitfire with a steely resolve. She’s everything I admire in a person, and it’s a pity that we’re on opposite sides, because despite my admiration and respect for Willow, that land is going to be mine. Losing is not a word in my vocabulary.
If we’d met under different circumstances—an entirely possible scenario, considering Willow is best friends with my sister-in-law, Daisy—I might have let myself explore this strange pull I feel toward her. Because every time I see that determined tilt to her mouth, something inside me hums to life, like it’s waiting for permission to react.
But now? There’s too much on the line. My reputation, the image of Elixir Estates, and a whole new set of priorities since my life flipped on its head six months ago. Dating, casual or otherwise, never had too much place in my life, but now those words don’t exist for me at all.
Am I upset? Not even a fucking bit. It’s a small price to pay for what I’ve gained in return—my daughter, Quill. My book- and sunflower-obsessed girl.
“Amicable?” I lift a brow. “Didn’t know that word was in your dictionary, Miss Pershing.”
Her cheeks flush—not from embarrassment or attraction, but with that telltale anger that’s become almost predictable.
“So tell me,” I continue, “how exactly you envision an ‘amicable’ resolution here, given that we’re firmly planted in a stalemate.”
She hesitates, seemingly wrestling with some inner logic, but then her eyes sharpen. “I have a proposition.” It’s clear she doesn’t trust me one bit. I can see it in every subtle tic—the blink, the tense jaw, the faint line between her brows.
Some people are transparent that way, and it’s both her strength and her weakness. In a business world that demands detachment, Willow wears her heart on her sleeve. And maybe, just maybe, I’m trying to spare her future bruises by taking this land off her hands. Yet if I were to say that out loud, she would probably chop my head off and place it on this very table.
“I’m listening,” I say instead, humoring her for a second. Nothing she says can change my mind unless she’s here to finally accept my job offer, which again, is an impossibility. Submitting to defeat is not in her nature.
We’re two kindred spirits in that sense.
She digs into her oversized tote bag and pulls out a laptop before flipping it open and turning it toward me. For a fleeting second, her confidence wobbles, her fingers hovering as she sets up the presentation. “Hear me out. All the way, okay?”
The guarded look in her eyes cuts right through me, reminding me of my daughter, especially those moments when Quill pauses, eyes searching, knowing I’m waiting for her to find her words—even if they come back in sign language.
“It seems I don’t have much of a choice since you blocked out an hour in my calendar.”
That does the trick. Willow’s confidence kicks back in, her spine straightening. “Good. I won’t let you leave until I’m finished.” She presses a key, bringing the first slide to life.
