Page 39 of Imperfect Arrangement
“Well, Mr. Teager,” she says coldly, “from now on, you can give me step-by-step instructions on exactly how you want me to handle your daughter, because clearly, I can’t be trusted to make a single decision.” She scoops up her dog. “And unless you have something else to say, I’m going to bed. I’ve been up since two in the morning, and my head is hurting like a bitch.”
Willow doesn’t give me a chance to apologize or explain. She storms off, leaving me feeling like the world’s biggest asshole.
* * *
Her words ricochetin my mind like a relentless echo: “I left my home and I’m staying in the house of the man I hate most in this town.”
Even though it hurts, I know I deserved it.
Since when did I turn into the resident jerk of Cherrywood?
For the first time, the night air around my home feels thick and suffocating. Instead of its usual calming embrace, it’s heavy with whispers of judgment and disappointment, wrapping around me like a weight I can’t shake.
I stand there, rooted to the spot, unsure how long I’ve been staring into the darkness. Willow’s face keeps flashing through my mind like scenes from a movie I can’t pause—her frustrated eyes, the tight line of her frown, the way her brows knit when she’s annoyed.
I know I won’t find a shred of peace until I apologize for being an even bigger jerk than she already thinks I am. But each step toward her room feels like I’m dragging cement blocks.
“She told you she’s had a long day,” my annoying inner voice chimes in. “Let her sleep. You can grovel in the morning.”
But what if she’s like me—too restless, too wound up to sleep when things are left hanging?
My brain feels like it’s been tossed into a blender set on high as I finally reach Willow’s door. Indecision gnaws at me, but then I notice a soft glow spilling through her window, casting a sliver of light onto the rhododendron shrubs outside.
She’s still awake. Probably thinking about the same damn conversation.
I knock on her door. Nothing. No response. So, I knock again, and this time, the door swings open under the weight of my hand, as if it had barely been latched.
Fuck. Any other day, Willowmighttolerate me invading her space, but today? Not a chance. Today’s the day I royally screwed up, and she probably doesn’t even want to see my face.
“Willow?” I call out, my voice quieter than usual. When there’s still no answer, a cold panic grips me, hitting me like a freight train.
Did she leave?
An unexpected knot tightens in my stomach. Worry, genuine and unselfish, rises to the surface. It’s late and dark and she mentioned a headache. I step inside, eyes darting around the room, searching for any clue. Her luggage is still there, and I exhale, feeling a flicker of relief. But before I can get too comfortable, the en suite bathroom door creaks open.
And there she is.
Willow Pershing. In nothing but a towel that’s doing a terrible job of covering anything up. The pale green fabric clings to every inch of her like it was custom-made for this moment. The towel barely hits mid-thigh, and if she so much as breathes wrong, it might reveal more than either of us is prepared for.
My brain decides now is a good time to short-circuit.
Words? Gone.
Thoughts? Useless.
Coherent sentences? Not a chance. Every single one was vaporized by the sight of Willow looking like a walking heart attack.
I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to blink. All that exists is that dangerously short towel and the way it clings to her like it’s fighting for dear life.
She freezes in the doorway, her eyes widening with surprise, mirroring the shock I’m sure is plastered on my face.
“What? Got more to say?” she snaps finally, though her cheeks flush a shade of pink that has nothing to do with the steam from her shower.
Her words are sharp, laced with fury, but I’m too distracted by the droplets of water sliding down her neck, disappearing beneath the edge of that dangerously small fabric like a damn tease.
I know I should look away. Really, I should.
But it’s like trying to ignore fireworks when they’re right in front of you. Her damp red hair tumbles over her shoulders in loose waves, framing her face in a way that’s both fierce and frustratingly beautiful, so unmistakably her.
