Page 90 of Imperfect Arrangement
“Now it’s official who owns this ramp.”
“Dad, make one for me too!” Quill exclaims, grabbing the paintbrush before he can even set it down.
Raymond chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh no, Bug. For you, we do it the right way.” He disappears for a moment, then returns with a can of light green paint. After pouring the paint into a tray, he lifts Quill by her waist. “Slippers off, Bug.”
Quill grins, kicking off her slippers until they land on the stone floor with soft thuds. Raymond lowers her onto the tray, and her tiny feet sink into the bright color. I don’t even question the safety of the paint. Raymond wouldn’t let his daughter near it unless he was absolutely certain. When he lifts her again, her paint-covered feet land smack on the ramp. Two small impressions, vibrant and unmistakably hers.
“How’s that, Bug?” Raymond asks, setting her down gently.
“I love it, Daddy!” Quill bounces on her heels.
I can’t tear my gaze away as Raymond picks up a smaller brush, carefully adding Quill Teager along one footprint and Bug around the other. My heart aches and swells at the same time.
“Willow, your turn,” Quill signs, her little fingers moving with determination.
“What?” I gasp, the word tumbling out of my mouth like an uncoordinated leap off a high dive.
Me? Leave my mark in Raymond Teager’s house? Not in a million years.
I take a deliberate step back, shaking my head for emphasis. Before I can fully escape, Raymond’s hand finds mine, his grip strong and steady. He tugs me closer, his face a picture of amusement.
“Take off your shoes, Willow.”
I glare up at him, defiance surely written in bold letters across my face. He might have gone crazy, but I still have some brain cells left to know whatever he’s trying to do is a BIG mistake.
Raymond lets out a low chuckle, turning to Quill with mock exasperation. “Our Willow is too stubborn, Bug. What do we do about her?”
Our Willow?
My heart stumbles over itself, and I hope my face doesn’t betray the chaos his words cause.
“Nothing. There’s nothing you have to do.” My voice is all sharp edges, but the man smiles like he’s immune to me.
Before I can make good on my silent threat to stomp on his foot, Quill tugs on my shirt. “It’ll be fun, Willow. Your feet will be right beside mine. Forever.”
And just like that, the fight drains out of me.
How does one say no to that face?
“Fine,” I huff, turning my narrowed eyes on Raymond. “But I’m only doing this for Quill.”
He grins, lopsided and boyish, and for a moment, he looks so young it makes my chest ache. “I’ll still thank you,” he says, dragging a hand over his heart like he’s making some solemn vow.
With a resigned sigh, I toe off my shoes. But before I can dip my feet into the paint tray, Raymond lifts me clean off the ground like I weigh nothing.
“Hey!” I squawk, arms flailing. “Stop handling me like I’m your personal doll!”
His lips dip close to my ear, his voice low enough to make every nerve in my body stand at attention. “I haven’t even started handling you like my personal doll, baby.”
My brain short-circuits. Every witty comeback I might have had vanishes into the ether.
He lowers me into the tray, the cool paint squishing between my toes. Then, just like he did with Quill, Raymond presses my painted feet onto the ramp, leaving bright green marks circling Quill’s.
He sets me down and then hands me a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a fresh washcloth. “Why don’t you both clean up while I finish here?”
I take Quill’s hand and start toward the garden bench, only to realize that we’re leaving a trail of green footprints all over the porch.
“Raymond,” I call over my shoulder.
