Page 44 of Imperfect Arrangement
It’s eerily quiet.That’s my first thought as I open my eyes. No hum from my refrigerator, no background noise, just a thick, unnerving silence. I reach for the switch on my nightstand, only to realize, as far as I dangle off the bed like a loose puppet, I’m not touching anything familiar. My fingers graze something smooth—not the crocheted tablecloth my mom insisted I needed because, apparently, all my apartment was missing to make it “feminine” were crocheted fabrics and pink china teacups, which she’s convinced would magically fix my nonexistent dating life.
And just like that, it all comes crashing back. I’m not in my apartment.
Nope. I’m in Raymond Teager’s house.
I let that sink in for a second, and to really pile it on. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I turned my life upside down, going from being a B&B owner to…a nanny?
Images from the evening flash in my mind—Raymond’s piercing gaze, Quill’s shy smile, the quiet moments in this big, unfamiliar house. Just as I start thinking about the unexpectedly human side of Raymond Teager, panic slams into me.
Holy crap! I forgot to set an alarm.
Aren’t nannies supposed to be up at the crack of dawn, bright-eyed and ready to get their charge prepped for school?
Off to a spectacular start, Wills.
After giving Raymond my whole “I’m trying so hard to be a decent nanny” speech, oversleeping feels like slapping myself in the face with my own words. The old Raymond would’ve had me packing my bags in two seconds flat. But what will this newer version of Raymond do? Only one way to find out.
That seems to be the theme of my life right now—facing things head-on.
I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and, still in my pajamas, bolt down the hallway. My flip-flops squeak like they’re auditioning for a one-person circus act as I barrel toward her room. By the time I reach Quill’s door, I’m practically panting, feeling like I’ve just outrun a pack of wolves.
“Hi, I’m here!” I blurt out, loud enough for the whole house to hear.
Just as I’m about to dash inside at full speed, Raymond steps out. With zero time to stop, I crash directly into him, nearly sending myself into another dimension.
He lets out a low “umph,” and my instinct kicks in. I grab the nearest thing I can find, which just happens to be the softest fabric I’ve ever touched—his suit.
But I don’t pull Raymond down with me. In fact, he doesn’t budge, not even a little. The man is a marble statue with his arms instantly circling my waist, holding me close like I weigh nothing, not even a wobble. It’s as if women fling themselves at him regularly, and he’s perfected the art of catching them in the nick of time.
Before I can blink, I’m back on my feet, or rather, practically hovering an inch off the ground, held steady by the sheer strength of his arms. His fresh breath, warm and impossibly close, brushes against my lips, and my heart stutters as if it’s forgotten how to function.
My first coherent thought? Thank God I brushed my teeth.
My second? Holy smokes, is that his bicep under my hand? Because whatever I’m gripping feels like solid rock.
Raymond’s gaze drops to where I’m still fisting his suit, and his mouth twitches. “You alright there?” His voice is low, teasing, and way too composed for someone who just caught a human wrecking ball.
I blink up at him, my brain lagging as I finally release my death grip. “Yeah, totally. Just…you know, testing your reflexes.”
And there it is—the full-on smirk, like he’s enjoying every second of my clumsy disaster. “Glad to know I passed.”
I manage a laugh, though it sounds more like a wheeze.
Quill hops down from her bed, eyes wide and clearly entertained by my near-death experience. “Morning, Willow,” she signs, her little fingers moving quickly while Raymond’s hands still rest casually on my hips.
“Morning, Quillbug.” I force a grin, ignoring the heat climbing up my neck as I finally step back. “Sorry I’m late to get you ready for school.”
“It’s okay. It’s the weekend.” Raymond’s voice holds a hint of amusement and surprise.
“Thank God.”
FRENCH BRAIDS OR RUINED ORANGES?
RAYMOND
Willow steps back, leaving the faint hint of citrus from her shampoo hanging in the air, and my brain takes it as a green light to replay last night: her standing in the doorway, wrapped in nothing but a towel, that same scent swirling around the room.
But before I can sink too deeply into that memory, Quill tugs on my pants, snapping me back to reality. My gaze shifts away from Miss Pershing—the woman who used to be my constant headache, but in less than twenty-four hours has somehow morphed into a walking distraction. To make things worse, my thoughts haven’t received the memo about professional boundaries and labor laws.
