Page 27 of Imperfect Arrangement
Damn, this woman.
The sheer nerve of her makes me want to both throttle her and kiss her—though I’d never admit that last part.
Am I really thinking what I’m thinking?
“Can we call a temporary ceasefire?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m begging, and I don’t know if I’m at all successful.
“That’s rich, coming from your mouth, since the last time we were here, I proposed exactly that. And not only did you reject it, but you disrespected me by taking a call from whomever was your sweetheart that day.” Her voice drips with anger, and her face flushes red, a color I’ve started to imagine on her for entirely different reasons.
You’re in deep shit, Raymond.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” The apology slips out before I even think about it, and based on the shocked look on her face, I’m guessing it’s the last thing she expected to hear.
But then she regroups, crossing her arms tighter, so I push further.
“It was Quill on the phone that day. My phone remains on silent during all of my meetings, except for when she calls. I don’t care if I’m sitting with the president himself, if my daughter calls, I answer. Period. It wasn’t personal, and it wasn’t meant to disrespect you.”
Her jaw drops like she’s seeing me for the first time. Honestly, I don’t blame her—I haven’t exactly given her a reason to think much of me.
“Fine,” she says, as if acknowledging that she’s slightly less mad about it now is some kind of concession.
Progress.
I take in her whole look. She’s wearing a white spaghetti-strap sundress with little strawberries printed all over it, like she’s strolling in from a summer picnic. It’s casual, effortless, and annoyingly cute. Her wrist is weighed down by a stack of silver bracelets, complementing the rings on her fingers. Her hair is pulled up into one of those messy buns. Her lips are painted in her signature light orange color that reminds me of a sunrise. She has almost no makeup on her face except for her mascara, which makes her freckles stand out even more.
Willow Pershing looks devastatingly beautiful.
And it somehow fits, since every waking minute, and maybe even during her sleep-filled ones, she wishes for my devastation.
“You gonna finish mentally insulting me, or can we move on to the part where I leave and get back to people who actually like me?” She tilts her head, waiting for me to either spit out an insult or a reason for her to stay.
“I don’t hate you, you know,” I say, letting the words land. “Someone would have to be pretty damn miserable to hate you.”
Her eyes widen comically, but no words make it out for several beats, pulling a chuckle out of me.
“I’m not that bad. Stop making me the villain.”
She shrugs, unimpressed, and for a second I want to keep arguing. But if we’re gonna get anywhere, we have to stop circling each other like this.
“Take a seat, Willow.” I use her name this time, watching the way it makes her pause. She still looks suspicious as hell, but thankfully she takes the seat.
Progress. Again.
“Now can you get to the point?” she asks, tapping her fingers on the table like she’s counting down the seconds until she can bolt.
I take a deep breath, locking eyes with her. “I’ve got a proposition.”
I can practically feel her eyes narrowing, daring me to say something stupid. She’s ready—primed to grab that oversized bag of hers and clobber me with it at the first wrong move.
“Oh really? So where am I and my future generations working this time?” Her voice drips with sarcasm.
Did I seriously make her that offer? Yeah, I did. And it was a damn good one too. But leave it to her to twist it into some sort of medieval family-legacy blackmail situation.
“Your future generations are out of this one,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light.
Her eyebrow arches, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Oh, the billionaire turned stingy. Business not doing so well?”
“Fortunately, your curses haven’t sunk my company just yet. This proposition is…personal.”
