Page 33 of Imperfect Arrangement
I nod. As much as Archer’s more…fiery, there’s no separating the two. That stuff they say about twin bonding—my cousins are living proof of it. Even though they look nothing alike, the same heart beats in their chests.
“Great. I’ll talk to you when you’re ready.” I’m about to turn around when Ray claps a hand onto my shoulder.
“You’re making the right call, Ray. And when the shareholders walk out of that room, we’ll make sure they’re convinced this was the direction they always wanted.”
I hope to hell he’s right.
A GUEST, A COPYCAT, AND A SUNBEAM?
RAYMOND
“Hey, Quillbug, what do you say we set out your favorite cookies for the new nanny?” I suggest, glancing over at my daughter, who’s currently doing her best impression of a couch cushion, melting into the upholstery like she’s trying to disappear entirely. If she slouches any lower, she’ll practically be part of the furniture.
This morning, I broke the news that a new nanny’s starting today. Her shrug in return was so lackluster I’m surprised it didn’t come with a yawn. Not that I blame her.
Every nanny so far has been more interested in me than actually doing the job of watching my kid. I can’t count how many have walked out of here before they even learned Quill’s favorite snack.
My assistant, Donna, and I have had the same conversation so many times I could recite it in my sleep. I beg her to find someone who actually cares about Quill. Just Quill. Someone who’s uninterested in me beyond their paycheck. Donna always hits me with her usual snark: “Married women over fifty aren’t exactly lining up to live here full-time. And no amount of praise will persuade my friends to do it.”
For a while, I started to think this ideal nanny was a fairy tale. But then along came Willow Pershing. And damn if she doesn’t set the bar and then flip it over her head for good measure.
I mean, I was hoping for someone who’d care about Quill more than me, but Willow? She can barely tolerate me, and yet she adores my daughter with a passion I didn’t think possible. I’m determined to figure out what it is about her that’s captivated Quill so one day I can hire someone just like her—without worrying they might kill me in my sleep.
“Maybe we could grab a couple of your storybooks to show her?” I try one more time, but Quill shakes her head, signaling that she’s not interested.
Yet, I have a sneaking suspicion that once she realizes it’s Willow we’re talking about, her attitude will do a complete one-eighty. We’ll probably look like opposites of our current mood—me brooding in one corner, and Quill beaming in the other.
I glance at my watch. Six thirty.
Before I can form a mental comment about Willow being late, my phone buzzes. A notification pops up—a car has passed through the main gate. I open the live feed, and there it is, a pastel green pickup truck with “Whispering Willow” stamped on the side.
And then she steps out. I swear, for a split second, she looks like she’s posing for some men’s special ethereal calendar. Her hair’s pulled into her signature messy bun, the kind that says,I rolled out of bed looking this good. Tattoos snake down her arms, fully visible thanks to her off-white spaghetti-strap dress with sunflowers. I’m not sure if she’s wearing it because she knows Quill loves sunflowers or if it’s a coincidence.
She crouches down, setting up her dog’s bag, and I catch her talking to him like he’s a person. And just like that, my pulse kicks up. And so does my cock.Fantastic. A reaction I’ve never had to anyone on my payroll and a perfect reminder to stay on my toes around Willow.
A member of my security team moves in to park her truck and offer help with her bags, but Willow waves them off with a casual flick of her hand. Then, with one smooth motion, she slings a duffel bag over her shoulder like it weighs nothing, looking more like a carefree backpacker wandering Europe than a nanny showing up for a job.
With one last confident stride, she disappears from the camera’s view, leaving me standing here still staring at my phone with my heart racing for all the wrong reasons. I can’t help but think,what the hell have I gotten myself into?
A few minutes later, the door opens, and Willow struts in, led by a member of the staff. I’m still recovering from whatever the hell it is about her that’s making my pulse pound, when she spots Quill and flashes the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. It’s nothing like the forced grin she gives my way—the one that feels like it’s seconds from turning into an eye roll or a sarcastic jab. “Hey, Quill!”
I’m making a mental note about Willow’s odd insistence on carrying her dog everywhere in a bag, but that thought vanishes the second she sets down the little puffball of a canine. It immediately zeroes in on Quill.
Instinct kicks in, and I’m ready to step in, my protective-dad-mode activated, but Quill’s reaction stops me cold. Her whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth stretching into a grin I’ve rarely seen, hands clapping with pure, unfiltered excitement.
The dog, clearly thrilled by the attention, trots over and sits in front of her, poised like a tiny guardian. Quill doesn’t hesitate. She drops to her knees and pets the dog like they’ve been best friends forever. The foyer falls silent except for the dog’s excited panting, and for a second, I swear Quill’s about to say something. She’s engaged, animated in a way I’ve been hoping for.
But then, she lifts a single finger, telling the dog to wait, like a tiny CEO giving orders, and the dog tilts its head as if it understands. The moment shatters into pieces when Quill races back inside the house, leaving me, Willow, Grandpa Will, and Captain Lick in an awkward standoff.
I exhale. This interaction, as simple as it was, hits me like a freight train, a reminder of why I’m doing all of this. It’s for Quill. No matter what my brain—or, apparently, my body—thinks about Willow, I can’t afford to mess this up. Not when my daughter’s happiness finally feels within reach.
“Welcome, Miss Pershing, and who’s this fine gentleman?” Grandpa Will slides in with a warm smile, giving a nod to the little furball at our feet.
“That’s Captain Lick.” Willow laughs, a soft, lilting sound that fills the space, adding a bit of chaos to my controlled, orderly home—like splashing color onto a black-and-white screen. “You can call him Cap, or Captain, if that feels less weird.” Her gaze flicks to me briefly, silently calling me out for not being as welcoming as the old man.
Alright, maybe I’m coming off as a bit of an ass. But it’s intentional—I need to keep the boundary clear from the beginning. I’m only being polite because of my daughter. I’m not here for whatever sunshine vibe Willow’s bringing into my house. It’s risky and way too distracting.
“We’ll take care of your bags,” Grandpa Will says, gesturing to the staff member. Willow, for once, doesn’t argue, which feels like a small miracle. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” he continues, smoothly saying all the things I probably should’ve said but didn’t.
