Page 37 of Imperfect Arrangement

Yep, I’ve stooped to fishing for compliments from a six-year-old.New low, Teager.

Quill giggles. “I like both.”

Of course she does. My kid’s got a heart of gold.

“Alright then.” I nod toward the stack of books on her nightstand. “Which one tonight?”

Not to my surprise, she points to the one with the red spine on top.

At least we have one thing in common—we share an obsession for the things we like.

I settle beside her and begin to read, putting extra effort into the character voices. A few pages in, I notice the bed shaking. Quill’s eyes are squeezed shut, a wide grin stretching across her face.

I pause. “What’s so funny?”

She peeks one eye open. “Are you trying to read like Willow?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I am not.”

“Are too!” Her hands move so fast as she conveys the words, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Take that back, Bug!” I feign offense, but like a kid who’s been caught red-handed, I lean back against her headboard, hiding my face behind the book.

A second later, the book is gently pulled away from my face. Quill kneels beside me, her wise green eyes searching mine with a patience no six-year-old should have. “What’s the matter, Daddy?” she signs softly.

I feel a flush creep up my neck. Great, now I’m getting called out by my own kid. I glance away, suddenly fascinated by the pattern on her bedsheets. “I thought you liked the way Willow reads.”

Quill’s face lights up with a smile—the kind that could outshine the sun and melt even the iciest hearts. I’d do anything to keep that smile alive, even if it means channeling my inner storyteller or, apparently, impersonating a certain captivating someone who has upturned my life in a matter of hours.

“I liked Willow’s reading. But before sleeping, I want my dad’s voice.”

And just like that, she pieces together every fractured part of me with a single sentence. How does this tiny human manage to be so damn insightful?

“You’re too good for your own good, Bug.” I ruffle her hair affectionately. “At this rate, I’m going to need an entire security convoy when you’re older to keep the world from stealing you away.”

She tilts her head, a puzzled look crossing her face. “Dad, you’re being weird.”

I chuckle. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone told me that. Now, under the covers you go.” I tuck the blanket around her snugly.

“Night, Daddy.” She snuggles into her pillow.

“Good night, Bug.” I lean in to kiss her forehead, lingering for a moment, soaking in this perfect slice of life. “Sweet dreams.”

As I stand to leave, she signs, “Daddy, you can like Willow too. She doesn’t mind.”

“Shh!” I hold her tiny hands, closing them in between mine, because she’s got it all wrong here.

I can’t like Willow Pershing, for way too many fucking reasons I can’t even count on my two hands.

And if somehow I hurt my head, suffer brain injury, and forget all those reasons and fall for her anyway…she’d definitely mind.

A TOWEL BANDIT

RAYMOND

As I leave Quill’s room, the swarm of anxiety gremlins is no longer clawing at my shoulders, whispering that Willow’s trying to replace me. My heart has finally stopped thundering with that irritated energy as I make my way toward the left wing. But as I near Willow’s room, I hear her dog’s woof faintly from outside. Changing course, I step into the back garden.

Under the soft glow of fairy lights strung across the pergola, Willow sits curled up on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest. Her dog is sprawled across her feet, eyes half closed as if he owns the place. I’m hit with a wave of déjà vu.