Page 45 of Imperfect Arrangement
I look down to find my daughter gazing up at me, her wild blonde hair in a tangled mess that seems to defy gravity, with strands sticking out in every direction like a chaotic little halo. She holds up a green hair tie that matches her dress perfectly.
“I’ll be right back.” The words leave my mouth before I dart out of the room. How does a responsible dad behave when his brain is spiraling into lust but he’s got a kid around who absolutely doesn’t need to catch wind of it? Seriously, where’s the manual for that?
I end up pacing through the house with no real destination, just trying to recalibrate. Moments ago, I was leaving Quill’s room to grab my iPad, and now here I am, emotionally winded from a casual run-in with Willow.
I take a deep breath.
My little fashionista has requested a French braid today, and while I’m proud to say I’ve gotten pretty good at this dad duty, it doesn’t hurt to have a little extra guidance. Thankfully, the single-mom YouTuber I follow breaks it down step-by-step, with instructions practically tailor-made for dads like me, navigating the hair-braiding world one pigtail at a time.
When I walk back into Quill’s room, she’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, looking like the queen of all things cute, while Willow stands nearby, looking a little…out of place.
“Thank God it’s Saturday,” Willow mutters mostly to herself, though Quill nods in solidarity, as if fully tuned into Willow’s monologue. “But starting tomorrow, I’m definitely setting an alarm.” Willow rubs her hands down the sides of her red pajamas. “I should probably figure out what you usually do on weekends.”
Watching her unsure, her words from before echo in my mind, the ones about not knowing what she’s doing but giving it her all. It reminds me that I still have to send the email I drafted last night, outlining Quill’s routine.
I step farther into the room, and both of them turn to look at me.
“I got the video.” I hand the tablet to Quill, who spins around on her bed without missing a beat so I can get behind her. “I can handle the braiding part, but I still like to have instructions,” I tell Willow, keeping my eyes focused on the task ahead. I don’t trust myself to look at her right now—not with my head still pirouetting and my chest feeling like it’s on fire. “But if you’d like, you could take over this task.”
I breathe deeply through my nose, steadying the wave of dad guilt rising up, as if I’m somehow shying from my responsibilities. But instead of drowning in it, I call on the logical part of my brain. This isn’t about me—it’s for Quill.
Keeping her to myself like an overprotective kangaroo has only made her more reliant on me. If I want her to open up to others, I have to loosen the reins. And Willow…well, Quill chose her. Last night erased any lingering doubts I had.
Quill turns, beaming, completely forgetting about the video. “Will you do my braid today, Willow?” She’s practically vibrating with excitement, holding up the green hair tie like a little trophy.
But when her hand hovers in the air a bit too long, I glance at my new nanny, expecting her usual burst of enthusiasm. Instead, she looks like someone just asked her to perform open-heart surgery. Her face has gone pale, and she steps back.
“You want me to French braid your hair?” Her eyes are wide as she clutches the hem of her soft, thin pajama shirt, gripping it like a lifeline.
Her gaze shifts to mine, narrowing as if I’ve set her up for this moment. “If I knew how to French braid, do you think my hair would always be in this stupid bun?” She grabs the messy knot atop her head and gives it a little shake.
That small, frustrated gesture hits me straight in the gut. My fingers itch to reach out, to feel that fiery red hair—the same strands that brushed against me earlier when she crashed into me.
Damn. In less than twenty-four hours, this woman has me acting like a total creep.
That messy bun, her complete lack of effort—and yet somehow, she’s still the most stunning woman. My brain keeps looping that thought over and over. While I’m still gazing at her like a starstruck idiot, Quill hops off the bed with way too much energy for a Saturday morning.
“Don’t worry, Willow. My dad can teach you! He’s really good now. My braid doesn’t even come loose after gym class anymore. Right, Dad?”
I stifle a groan, forcing a bright smile. “I’m sure Willow doesn’t want to learn how to braid hair first thing on a weekend, Bug.”
But Quill isn’t buying it. “What if Willow wants to braid her own hair someday?”
I glance at Willow, hoping for a lifeline, but her moment of nervousness has vanished. She’s back to being the Miss Pershing I know, grinning and clearly biting back a laugh, thoroughly enjoying watching me get cornered by my own daughter. “I’d love to be able to braid my hair.”
Fucking Fantastic.
“Let’s go, Dad.” Quill pats my knee like I’m the kid here, flipping the script completely.
I love doing the little things for my daughter. Braiding her hair, painting her nails with her favorite color of the week, online shopping for dresses—all things I never imagined myself doing in my wildest dreams.
But having Willow witness this side of me…is…unnerving.
It feels like a part of me I’ve always kept private is suddenly exposed, and once again, I realize she’ll never be like any other nanny we’ve had. There’s an unspoken history between us, laced with tension—half admiration, half irritation—and I’m starting to wonder which one of those feelings will win out and explode.
“Do you mind if I watch?” Willow’s voice pulls me back to the present, her question laden with curiosity.
In any other universe, I’d have a quick, flirtatious response lined up. Something smooth like, “I don’t mind you watching at all.” Maybe with one of my signature smirks to make my point. But instead, I duck my head, keeping it together. “That’s fine by me.”
