Page 105 of Imperfect Arrangement

Don’t go there, Wills. You don’t do serious, remember?

I scramble for an exit, but before I can throw up my carefully constructed walls, he clicks a remote on the table. A projector hums to life, casting a soft glow onto a pop-up screen.

I blink. “We’re watching a movie?”

“Not just any movie.” His eyes briefly flick to the screen, but he’s back to watching me as he says, “Did you know that in several cultures willow trees symbolize rebirth and resilience? It’s associated with the ability to endure hardship and loss and still love with all your heart.”

My chest goes tight, and suddenly, swallowing feels like a full-time job.

He sets both our glasses aside and turns fully toward me. “When I saw your tattoo that first night—right before Captain Lick bolted after you like a greyhound on steroids—I looked up the meaning.” His lips twitch as if, like me, he’s remembering the exact moment. “I never imagined you’d associate your name with loss. You’re one of the strongest people I know, Willow. You built something out of heartbreak. You gave my daughter courage. You’re not a symbol of mourning—you represent life.”

Raymond’s face blurs before me as hot tears pool in my eyes and slip down my cheeks before I can stop them.

“Shh.” He hands me a handkerchief, his fingers brushing mine. “I’ll be here to remind you of this as many times as you need until you believe it.”

Before I can tell him that he might be here today but people always leave, he pulls me into him. No hesitation, no space left between us.

And I let him, because I’m tired. Tired of fighting this, tired of acting like I don’t crave the way his arms feel around me or the way the cedarwood-and-lavender scent wraps around me like a safety net I never asked for.

You don’t do serious, Wills.

But maybe—just maybe—Raymond Teager is the exception to every damn rule I’ve made for myself. The thought sends a shiver rolling down my spine, and he tightens his grip, holding me like he knows I’m fighting an internal war. In this moment, it’s so easy to forget the reality of our arrangement and that my time with him is slowly coming to its end. When did the man who was my nemesis become my anchor?

Stop, Wills. Stop for your own good.

I can’t ignore my inner voice for long because she’s completely right.

I take a slow breath, tilting my head toward the screen. “Are we seriously watchingPocahontas?”

His lips twitch against my hair. “It’s a really good movie.”

I tip my head back, narrowing my eyes. “Did you pick it so you could remind me I look like Grandmother Willow?”

Raymond laughs, the deep, rumbling sound vibrating against my cheek. “No, Miss Pershing.” He leans in, his lips at my ear, his voice all gravel and heat. “I picked it because I wanted to remind you that you’ve got enough snap in your vines.”

“Do you believe in wishes? Like there’s someone out there looking out for us?” My words are slow, as my attention is split between the movie running in front of us and Raymond.

His hands move slowly, deliberately, up and down my arms, the friction sending warm little sparks throughout my bloodstream. It’s hypnotizing. Comforting. Dangerous.

He’s silent for a beat, his chin resting on top of my head, his chest a steady wall of warmth against my back. Finally, he nods. “I do. I believe that miracles happen. Me meeting my dad. Quill hopping onto that Ferris wheel and finding you.”

My heart stumbles over itself. Could this man be any more perfect?

“When I was a kid, I believed too. In all fairness, it could also have been a side effect of having Violet as one of my closest friends.” I let out a shaky laugh, trying to shove down the riot of emotions bubbling up inside me. “But as I got older, the idea of wishing on something you can’t see started to feel…stupid.”

His fingers slide down, skimming over my jean-clad thighs, and heat licks at my skin.

“How can anything that makes us stronger be stupid, Willow? Whether it’s praying, wishing, or just believing in miracles.”

It’snot fair—the way he manages to be both poetic and distracting at the same time. His hands move with slow intent, tracing patterns on my thighs before drifting higher, fingertips teasing over the strip of bare skin between my jeans and where my top has ridden up. Just a slight brush, yetmaddening.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” he asks, voice low and rough, like he’s testing me.

I can’t breathe. This is dangerous territory. Slippery—no, a full-on landslide into something Ishould notwant with Raymond Teager. But Idowant to know what he thinks.

“Like there’s one person for everyone?” My voice is barely steady.

“Uh-huh.”