Page 21 of Imperfect Arrangement

“Green,” she replies softly.

“Green’s awesome. How about we paint our nails green? You and me, matching.”

“You too?” Her eyes are big with excitement.

“Of course.” I grin. “We’re friends, right? Friends do samesies.”

Her lips curl so wide, I think my heart might burst.

“What about nail art? Do you want something fun? Maybe a little feather to go with your name?”

Her face lights up even more, if that’s possible. “A feather! Did you know quills are also used for writing? My dad told me that.”

I nod, my heart catching in my throat. “You’ve got an amazing dad.”

And despite every grudge I hold, it’s the absolute truth. Raymond Teager might be the most obnoxious businessman and a thorn in my side, but he’s a damn good dad.

“One day, I want to write stories with a quill. LikeLittle Women.Dad’s reading it to me.”

My heart lurches again, this time from the realization that this girl—Raymond’s daughter—is more like a tiny wise old soul.

“Quill, my tiny surprise packet! Are you seriously reading a big person’s book?”

She nods proudly. “Dad reads it to me every night.”

“Every night?” I ask, feeling guilty for spying on Raymond through Quill. And I know I’m going to have dreams about this version of Raymond—the one who reads storybooks to his daughter.

“Uh-huh. But he skips the long parts.” She wrinkles her nose. “I think he likes Cinderella more than Jo and Meg.”

I snort. I’m sure Raymond is just trying to get his daughter to read more kid-appropriate books than such heavy literature.

A knock at the door interrupts us, and Laine pops her head in, looking frazzled. “Hey, sorry about that. Laurie wasn’t supposed to be working this room today. We mixed up the schedule.”

Her usual confident smile is nowhere to be found, and I know exactly why. If Raymond hears about this mix-up, there will be hell to pay.

“It’s all good. Quill and I had a nice little chat. Didn’t we, Quillbug?”

Quill nods, and I throw Laine a reassuring smile. I’m not ratting her out to Raymond.

Laine visibly relaxes, her shoulders sagging in relief. “Thanks, Willow. I owe you a ton.”

A STRANGE COMMUNICATION

WILLOW

“But, Joanne, you said I had until the end of the month.” My voice is taut, barely masking the desperation clawing at my insides.

The woman blinks rapidly, as if she just wants to get everything out. “I’m sorry, Willow.” Her words tumble out in a rush, and each one feels like a tiny nail hammered into my chest. “You know I loved your business idea—a grand wedding estate, cozy yet elegant. But my financial advisor’s put his foot down, and I can’t wait any longer for you to sort out the mess with your family’s property.”

Her words hit like a sucker punch, stealing the breath from my lungs. Last night, when her text buzzed my phone on my way back from the spa, I knew it wasn’t because she had missed me. But I also didn’t expect my dreams to get trampled before breakfast.

I met Joanne Taylor at Cherrywood’s small-business owners’ luncheon—my first and only time at one of those things. I’d only attended because I was curious about what people did when they weren’t drowning in paperwork or praying their businesses didn’t tank. But then Joanne started asking questions, like if I ever dreamed of doing something bigger than running Whispering Willow. And before I knew it, my mouth was running, spilling all the details of my vision for the wedding estate. Little did I know, she was considering my blabbering an investment pitch, apparently seeing dollar signs where I saw flower arrangements and twinkly lights.

For me, it wasn’t just the promise of her money, though. It was the way she believed in my idea. She’d send me links to articles about celebrities ditching lavish weddings for quaint, low-key ceremonies. Someone finally got me!

So when she called a few days later, offering to invest, it felt like fate. I jumped in headfirst. There was no hesitation, no looking back. Until Gio came slithering out of the woodwork. One minute, my land was mine; the next, Gio was sprawled on the deck by the stream like he owned it, which he believes he does.

Why had I not flung him into the water that day? It would have been the perfect solution.