Page 29 of Imperfect Arrangement
“This isn’t right,” she continues. “Not for me, and certainly not for you. I get that you’re scared…” Before I can correct her, she does it herself, giving me a pointed look. “Okay, macho man. Maybe not scared, but still, do you even know what you’re asking? For your own sake?”
I blink, thrown by her reasoning. She’s concerned about me?
“Don’t worry about me.” Those words feel strange coming from my lips and being directed toward Willow, who was Miss Pershing until last night. “But if it makes you feel better, I can have an employment contract in writing.”
“It’s not that.” She shakes her head, eyes steady on mine. “I never thought I’d say this. I trust you here. But…what if my presence doesn’t help…the way you expect?” Willow looks away. “You’re putting too much pressure on everyone.”
Her concern stings more than I expected. I rake a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of everything on my shoulders. “How about we decide on a deadline?” A plan forms on the fly. “You work for me until your new wedding estate is ready. If nothing else, I think my daughter is going to enjoy having you and your dog at my home temporarily.” I try to lift my lips, making light of the discussion.
“It’s nice to hear someone else call it my new estate, but I still can’t accept your offer. Unfortunately, my plan’s not happening.” The resolute but defeated expression on her face shocks and scares the hell out of me.
“What do you mean? You changed your mind?” I clench my fists, but my nails digging into my palms relax as Willow lets out a shuddering breath.
“My investor did. She pulled out yesterday. So even if I want to help, I really can’t.”
Fuck! For a second, I forget the entire reason we’re here. “I…I’m sorry to hear that.”
Willow is about to rise and leave, turning this meeting into a failure, when I say, “I can help you find another investor. Equally good, if not better.”
Instead of jumping at the chance, she stares at me. “You’d do all that, knowing you might not get what you want in the end? I used to think you were a much smarter businessman.”
But that’s the thing—I’m not here as a businessman. “Today, I’m just a dad.”
She falters, and I can see her resolve cracking, her fingers tapping the table nervously.
And that’s when I catch a glimpse of her nails—green paint with a tiny black feather, just like what I saw on Quill’s nails last night.
I always knew Willow was different than most women. I can’t believe my daughter realized that too, and in just one meeting.
“Willow, take a day to think about it. I’ll get you the best investor, and you can build the business you and your grandpa dreamed of.”
A NEUROTIC CLOWN FISH
RAYMOND
“Dad. Reading time,” Quill signs, her big green eyes peeking up at me from under her unruly curls as I step into her room. She’s already snuggled in her sky-blue pajamas—the ones with little puppies scattered all over them. I have no clue where this sudden dog obsession came from, but here we are.
I move closer, and she reaches for a book from the teetering, colorful stack by her bed. When I catch sight of the familiar red spine, I barely hold back a groan. Not again.
“Don’t you want to try something new tonight, Quillbug?” I ask, throwing on my best Dad’s-friendly-suggestion voice, the one that’s helped me win these little battles before.
But tonight, she shakes her head with that determined glint in her eyes that makes me chuckle. Hugging the illustrated copy ofLittle Womento her chest like it’s her most treasured possession, she flashes that sweet, innocent smile that leaves me defenseless every time.
What is it with her and this book? I even mentioned it to her therapist, wondering if this fixation meant something deeper. The no-nonsense woman rolled her eyes and told me to quit looking for trauma under every rock. Not everything’s a crisis. Who knew?
I settle onto her bed, propping myself up against the headboard, and Quill immediately curls up beside me, her tiny body fitting perfectly against mine. She sets the book in my lap, her head nestling on my chest, and my heart does that wild, ridiculous flip it always does whenever she snuggles in close.
I honestly can’t remember what my nights looked like before her.
Six months ago, my evenings were filled with…what? Work emails? Conference calls? Now, every moment feels like it has meaning. It’s like I’m rewriting my whole life one bedtime story at a time, using a pen dipped in pink glitter and purpose.
The cuckoo clock on her wall chimes, and a tiny wooden bird pops out as the figurines spin to the lilting “Edelweiss” tune. Above it, a framed quote my mom gifted me the day after Quill moved in reads,Dads don’t make daughters. Daughters make dads.
I had no idea how true that was going to be.
I think back to that first night, when I’d called my mom in a blind panic at three in the morning, holding a little girl who’d woken up crying, silent, refusing to say a word. I had never felt more helpless in my life. Everything was upside down—except that one clear, irrefutable fact: she needed me.
And God, I was terrified of screwing it up. Yet even on those roughest nights, she clung to me. Just like now.
