Page 10 of Imperfect Arrangement

“She just spoke,” I mutter, the words barely escaping my lips. “In actual words.”

My mind scrambles to process it, but Quill doesn’t stop there. She says something else, then leans over to press her lips against the head of a scruffy dog poking out of a carry bag.

And then she keeps going. Plural sentences.

It takes everything in me to pull the binoculars away from Quill and see who’s sitting beside her, the one somehow coaxing out the words I’ve been desperate to hear.

There, beside my daughter, is Willow Pershing.

The woman who called me every name in the book two days ago.

The woman who’s somehow managed to parade over my life and hold everything I want in those infuriatingly delicate hands.

The shock finally wears off, and I shove the binoculars back at Grandpa Will before tearing off toward the Ferris wheel like a man possessed.

Were the streets this crowded when we arrived, or did the whole town suddenly decide to stage a reunion right now? Bodies press in from all sides, with no sense of urgency, clogging up the path between me and my daughter. I’m proud of my fitness routine—hours of Aikido, gym, cardio, and football practice with the local kids—and yet I’m gasping and it feels like an eternity before I finally reach the Ferris wheel’s ticket kiosk, only to find it deserted.

And here’s the kicker: no one else seems remotely bothered that the Ferris wheel has stalled. People are chatting, sipping drinks in neon paper cups, hollering up to their friends stuck on the ride. A couple waves from their stranded cabin, looking like they’re on a Sunday outing rather than stuck thirty feet in the air.

“Who’s in charge here?” My panicked voice comes out as a wheeze, barely audible over the crowd.

The only response I get is a few raised eyebrows and even fewer glances my way. My patience, already hanging by a thread, snaps.

“Where the hell is the person responsible for this Ferris wheel?” This time, I project, voice ringing with authority—and a lot of desperation.

“That would be me.” A man standing at thefar edgeof the kiosk lazily waves a hand, strolling over like he’s got all the time in the world. His whole attitude screams indifference, like he doesn’t care that his inaction put everyone on that contraption, including my daughter, at risk.

My patience? Long gone. I’m a heartbeat away from grabbing him and dragging him over.

“Listen to him before you lose it, Raymond.” Grandpa Will’s calm voice beside me manages to keep my fists unclenched, but just barely.

“Hi there, I’m Decent Joe. How can I help you?” The man—who is, by all appearances, the epitome of laid-back irresponsibility—is completely at ease, not a single worry in the world.

The way he exudes casual negligence has me fighting the urge to shake him. “You’re the one running the Ferris wheel?”

He nods, still smiling like this is a friendly chat. “The one and only. Been doing it for years.” He gives a little shrug. “If you’re looking to take a ride, you’ll need to wait about half an hour.”

Half an hour? Did he actually say that?

“My daughter is up there, in the topmost cabin.” My voice comes outrough and raw,scraping against my throat like a blade. “I want her down. Now.”

The smile slips from his face, finally. He squints, trying to see all the way to the top. “She’s up there with Willow?”

Of course. Small-town life. Everyone’s on a first-name basis with everyone else.

“Yes. And there’s a dog with them,” I snap. “I’m sure that’s a violation of every safety protocol you should have in place.”

Decent Joe waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t worry. Captain Lick loves it up there. And Willow knows what she’s doing.”

“Not when it comes to my kid, she doesn’t,” I growl.

I couldn’t care less about Willow Pershing and her disregard for her dog’s safety—or her own, for that matter. If I’ve understood the woman right, she doesn’t know when to stop for her own good. Be it in arguments or be it in adventure.

“I want my daughter down now,” I repeat, each word clipped.

Decent Joe holds up a placating hand, unruffled by the edge in my voice. “Listen, man, this ride’s a beauty, and like every queen, she’s got an attitude. So every few rides, she likes to remind me that she’s the one in charge and stalls for about thirty-five minutes. Been that way forever. In fact, she’s kind of a local legend now—Cherrywood’s very own Ferris wheel with a personality. You can read all about her quirks on the town’s website.”

Is he seriously telling me they’re selling the idea of an eccentric ride to tourists instead of fixing it? I can’t decide if I should be impressed by the town’s shameless marketing or report them for utter recklessness.