Page 4 of Imperfect Arrangement
“What don’t I know here, Quill?”
“Aunt Daisy’s going to bake cupcakes at our house, and she said I can help. We are going to make yellow frosting like sunflowers,” she signs, the proud excitement practically radiating from her.
“Sounds good to me,” I say. “But you have to follow every one of Daisy’s instructions, alright? Kitchens are no joke, and I don’t want you getting hurt.”
She nods seriously, and I can’t help but feel my heart squeeze. “Alright, I’ll see you tonight, honey.”
I end the call, checking the time.
Fuck. I’ve kept Willow waiting way longer than I planned.
When I get back, Willow’s laptop is closed, her bag already slung over her shoulder, her whole posture screaming,I’m done here.
“You were saying something?” I ask, running a hand over my jaw, trying to figure out if apologizing is in order. She was mid-pitch, after all.
But that thing called stubborn male ego is a bitch.
“Oh, I was,” she replies with a veneer of forced politeness that does nothing to hide the fury in her eyes. “I just didn’t realize I was sitting across from someone who completely disregards business etiquette and basic respect.” She shakes her head like she’s trying to keep herself from going off on me in every language she knows.
I’d laugh if the guilt weren’t creeping up on me, and I hate feeling guilty, even if I have a damn good reason to.
“Anyway,” she continues, gaze drilling into mine. “I think you caught the main idea. So…do you agree?”
I pause, not because of any dramatics, but simply because I want to tell this to her nicely. But after a few moments, I realize there’s no nice way to say it. So, here it goes.
“Not at all,” I say, letting it sink in. “My company doesn’t do cozy and rustic. Plus, I’m not sure what gave you the idea that there was room for negotiation here.”
If my cousins are coming over this weekend, one of them, if not all, will definitely ask about the status of the land deal. By now, everyone knows the situation between Willow and me. In fact, they have been witnesses of our heated arguments where it’s appeared we were a breath away from ripping each other’s throats out. I have no clue when it started, but now my cousins are taking sadistic pleasure in my discomfort. I need to stop this shit right now.
“But since you went to all the effort”—I gesture to her bag and the laptop inside—“let me make you a counterproposal. All your delays are doing is stalling what’s already in motion. So, Miss Pershing, here’s my offer: let me build Cherrywood’s biggest luxury hotel on that land, and I’ll make sure you, and your future generations, always have a place at Elixir Estates.”
Her face turns such a bright red that I almost feel the heat, and she reminds me of the carrot character in one of Quill’s storybooks.
“For the record, I already have a family business, in case you’ve forgotten! We don’t need anything from a business shark like you.”
“I wouldn't sayanything, since you went to all the trouble of making these slides and pitching this amicable proposition.”
All the restraint Willow’s barely been holding on to snaps, and in an instant, I see the woman I’ve come to both admire and regret ever meeting blaze to life right in front of me.
“You know, I must have completely lost it to think you were capable of empathy,” she seethes, her tone laced with contempt. “They don’t call you The Shark for nothing—you’re so freaking emotionless and selfish. I…I was an idiot to even try to have a civil discussion with you today.” Her gaze flicks to the phone still in my hand, the one I had to pick up mid-meeting. “I just hope the girl in your life realizes soon enough that she’s only wasting her time. There’s no reason for her to lose sleep or give you her all when she’s going to get nothing in return.”
And just like that, her words hit me square in the weakest spot of my chest. Because the truth is, the one person who means everything to me isn’t giving me her all.
Quill and I have been through a parade of doctors and therapists who all tell me the same thing: physically, there’s nothing wrong with my daughter. It’s situational mutism, they say. A complex web of anxiety that keeps her voice locked away from me and everyone else. They promise she’ll find someone one day, someone she’s comfortable enough with, and then she’ll start speaking. I always thought that someone would be me, but slowly, I’m losing my grip on that hope.
And if that wasn’t enough, Quill has withdrawn further, shying away from kids her age and anyone outside my family. I’ve tried everything. I’ve brought in child specialists with personalities so vibrant they could get a stone to laugh. Yet no one has managed to crack through her shell.
I press my fists into the table, jaw tight. “Why don’t you worry about your own losing battle, Miss Pershing, and I’ll take care of my personal life. Because despite my ‘selfish’ nature, I have someone to lose. But looking at you, I doubt there’s a man in the world who could handle this kind of temperamental behavior. And since we’re being ‘honest’ now,” I say, leaning in, “being all heart and emotional in business meetings? That’s what’s damn unprofessional.”
She doesn’t hesitate to prove my point, slamming her hand down on the table as she rises. “Next time, Mr. Teager, we’ll be meeting in court.”
“Can’t wait.” The words scrape out like gravel. I toss some cash onto the table, enough to cover a week’s entire lunch rush, and walk away, feeling the usual guilt press down with each step.
Every damn time I end a meeting with Willow Pershing, the same guilt lingers like a bad taste.
Fucking useless morals.
I’m not taking anything from her—at least not anything she rightfully owns.
