Page 103 of Imperfect Arrangement
I need a minute. Maybe ten.
“Yes. Shit. Sorry.” The words tumble out of my dry throat. “Quill’s asleep. I just checked on her.”
His broad shoulders relax, but his eyes stay locked on me, assessing, calculating. Then, as if he can hear every chaotic thought inside my head, his lips curve into a slow, knowing smile.
The tension shifts.
Raymond stretches, lifting his arms to rest on the doorframe, and dear God, help me, because all that does is put every ripple of muscle on display. Water drips from his hair, sliding over his chest, down his abs, disappearing beneath the towel.
Heknows. Heknowsexactly what he’s doing to me.
“Do you need something, Firefly?” His voice is soft, coaxing, like he’s daring me to admit exactly why I’m here.
I inhale deeply, breathing in courage along with oxygen. “I came to tell you something.”
His lips twitch. “And what would that be?”
I try to think of a decent reason for showing up at Raymond’s door, because my bravado and fearlessness have long left the building. “The cake is doing fine,” I mutter.
After putting Quill to bed, he and I spent hours baking that sunflower birthday cake for the party tomorrow. But this—showing up in the middle of the night, disturbing his peace to announce cake stability—was not my original plan.
“Uh-huh.” He cocks his head. “Was that all?”
My feet shift, my hands fidget. Meanwhile, the man covered in nothing but a towel looks like he has all the time in the world.
I panic blurt, “I hate my name.”
His smile falters.
I push forward, fast, because if I stop now, I’ll bolt. “You asked me about the Willow tattoo.” I point toward my chest. “I used to wonder why my mom named me after a tree that symbolizes loss and mourning. It always felt like I was destined to be sad. After Gramps died, I got so fed up with everything that I decided if living in sorrow was my destiny, I’d at least own it.”
Raymond doesn’t say anything. Just watches me like he’s piecing together a puzzle.
I swallow. “That’s why.”
He nods, his voice softer now. “Thank you.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For telling me.”
A beat passes. I wait for him to say something else, but instead, he turns and shuts the door.
What the hell just happened?
I stare at the wood paneling for ages, my heart hammering.
Did I just spill my deepest emotional baggage to the man I came here to request casual sex from?
I am so freaking bad at this.
I’m about to knock again and plead temporary insanity when the door swings back open.
Except this time, he’s dressed in a perfectly fitted navy-blue Armani suit with a crisp white shirt. His hair is still damp, but now, instead of half naked and dangerous, he looks like he’s about to close a million-dollar deal.
“Yes, that will be all,” he says to someone on the phone pressed against his ear before hanging up.
“Ray—”
