Page 36 of Imperfect Arrangement
“Did you pick out your clothes before dinner?” I ask, surprised and proud all at once. Every day, my daughter finds new ways to impress me. It feels like she’s growing up too fast, becoming more independent with each passing day.
She smiles and shakes her head. “No, it was Willow.”
My fist clenches instinctively at my side. “You don’t have to wear something just because Willow suggested it, you know.”
“I like them too, Dad.”
Of course she does. My daughter—sweet as she is—would never want to hurt someone’s feelings, especially someone who’s managed to fit herself into her tiny heart so quickly.
I can already see it. Quill is going to grow into the kind of woman who puts everyone else before herself. It’s both adorable and terrifying.
She tugs on my pant leg before nodding toward the nightwear on her bed. “So can I wear these, or should I find something else?”
“Alright, if you like them.” I hand her the pajamas. “Go ahead and knock if you need help.”
She scampers off to the bathroom, her tiny feet pattering against the floor.
As I wait, my eyes fall on the book Willow had been reading earlier. It’s sitting on top of the stack. Of course, she hadn’t just read it—she’d brought the whole damn thing to life with a different voice for each character. If Willow Pershing ever loses her inn business, she’s got a solid backup career as a storyteller at the nearest children’s bookstore. The thought of telling her that makes me smirk. She’d probably chop my head off without a second’s hesitation.
The truth is, I know more about Willow than I’d care to admit. My team runs background checks on every business associate, but with Willow, it wasn’t just business. It was personal.
All because of Quill, of course. Nothing else.
And as much as I hate to admit it, Willow was right about one thing: she’s built something special at Whispering Willow. They’ve found their niche in the cutthroat B&B market, hosting weddings and events with glowing reviews pouring in. People rave about the place like it’s magic. Willow and her mom are definitely the kind of people who go above and beyond for their business. That kind of dedication can’t be taught.
Maybe, just maybe, that’s why I feel so conflicted about her. She’s more than I expected in every way.
Quill bursts out of the bathroom, a grin lighting up her face as she twirls in her brand-new yellow pajamas, practically glowing against her skin. She looks like a walking sunbeam.
Damn it, Willow. How am I supposed to stay annoyed when my daughter is radiating pure joy?
“You and Daisy had quite the shopping trip this time.” I cross my arms, unable to hide my smile.
Quill nods enthusiastically. “I know! Maybe next time we can take Willow and Captain Lick with us.”
My lips curl down as I suppress a groan. Great. I don’t know if she’s more smitten with the dog or its owner, and I’m not ready to unpack that can of worms.
She hands me her scrunchie and turns around, signaling for me to unbraid her pigtails. It’s our nightly ritual. As I start to work through the strands, a knot forms in my stomach. Will this become yet another thing Willow takes over? The thought sits like a pebble in my shoe—small but irritating.
Quill twists around, her forehead creased, snapping me out of my thoughts.
Damn it.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” I say, wincing. “Did I pull too hard?” I place my hands behind my back.
She gives me that look—the one that says,What’s going on with you, Dad?
“I promise I’ll be more careful.” I resume untangling her hair, this time with the concentration of a bomb defuser. No more wandering thoughts about a certain nanny-slash-business rival.
Once her hair is free and brushed, I tuck her under the covers and plant a kiss on her forehead. “Good night, Bug.”
As I turn to leave, she grabs my hand. “Wait! No bedtime story tonight?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought Willow already read to you.”
She grins. “That was different.”
“Different how?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “You don’t like Willow’s reading?”
