Page 102 of Imperfect Arrangement
I pull her close, wrapping her in a tight hug. “You being here with me already makes me happy. But I miss my gramps, and I wish you could have met him.”
I sit there wrapped around the girl who chose me from the crowd and unknowingly changed my life. When I finally pull back, I notice the damp spots I’ve left on her dress. “I’m sorry for messing up your dress,” I say, laughing weakly through the last of my tears.
Quill shakes her head and brushes my cheeks with her small hands. “You can use my dress anytime, Willow. I just don’t like it when you cry.” Her forehead furrows briefly before she offers, “Would you like a cookie? My dad always gets me one when I’m upset.”
Her mention of Raymond tugs at something deep in my chest.
That maddening, perfect man who has somehow taken every broken part of my life and turned it into a fairy tale, even when I’ve fought it every step of the way. But every fairy tale comes to an end. Doesn’t it?
I shove the thought aside and turn to Quill. “Can I ask you something?”
She nods, her face still etched with concern.
“Why do you only speak in words to me?” My voice wavers, worried I’ll somehow hurt her.
Quill looks down, her shoulders rising in a small shrug. She takes several moments before saying, “I don’t know. When I saw you on the Ferris wheel, you looked sad. You looked like me.”
Her quiet words slam into me like a freight train. I remember that day so clearly. Nothing in my life was going as planned. I hadn’t even bothered to take the sunflower bud out of my purse, convinced the universe was laughing at me. Little did I know, Mother Nature was sending me a six-year-old miracle and her ridiculously infuriating, handsome dad.
I place my hand over hers. “I was sad that day, Bug. And I’m so glad you talked to me. You have such a beautiful voice, and one day, the people who love you are going to want to hear it. Your dad will want to hear it, when you’re ready. He loves you so much.” My voice breaks as Raymond’s face floods my mind—the way it lights up when he looks at Quill. The way he loves her so fiercely, it’s almost overwhelming.
Quill’s chin wobbles, her green eyes glistening as she looks up at me. “I want to talk to him, but I don’t know how.”
My chest tightens.
For the first time, I realize how similar we are. Both scared of love. Both holding back. Both unsure how to ask for what we want.
“You’ll find a way. I know when the time’s right, you will speak to your dad.”
As I say the words, I’m once again hit by the feeling that in order to be honest to this sweet girl, to show her, to tell her, how it feels to be fearless, I need to let go of my own fear at least one freaking time.
* * *
I stopoutside Raymond’s bedroom door, my feet suddenly glued to the marble floor. The house is silent. Everyone’s asleep. Quill is tucked in bed, Captain Lick is probably chasing imaginary rabbits in his dreams, and all the house staff—including Grandpa Will—are long gone.
So, it’s just me standing here, fidgeting and second-guessing. I take a steadying breath and knock.
I wait…and wait some more, but nothing.
Crap. Is he already asleep?
Of course he is. The man isn’t a vampire. He doesn’t lurk around in the shadows waiting for a booty call I can’t even properly articulate.
Self-consciousness crashes over me like an avalanche. I wasted thirty whole minutes hyping myself up, reminding myself that I’m being ridiculous. That Ray knows I don’t do serious, so this—me standing outside his door like some midnight intruder—isn’t some cry for love. It’s me proving to myself that I can ask for intimacy, even when it’s terrifying.
But while I was lost in my existential pep talk, it never once occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, Raymond Teager had the audacity to fall asleep at a reasonable hour.
Freaking great, Wills.
I knock again, but it’s so weak even bats and dogs would miss it. Just as I turn to flee, the door swings open.
Raymond is standing there, dripping wet, a white towel slung low on his hips, water sliding down his chest like he just walked off a cologne ad.
I swallowair.
His hair is damp, strands clinging to his forehead, and all I can picture is him running out of the shower in a hurry.
“Willow? Is everything okay?” His voice is thick, laced with concern. “Is Bug okay?” His eyes scan my face, his brows furrowed.
