Page 50 of Imperfect Arrangement

I press my hand over my mouth, trying to hide my ridiculously growing smile.

Crap! You idiot, Willow.

This is just Raymond being Raymond—charming, smooth, slick. But I can’t forget for a second that he’s the same man who spent months trying every way possible to take my land short of threatening me. Just because we’re on the same team today doesn’t mean he’s suddenly my best buddy.

He’s being polite—friendly, even—but that’s all it is.

Shaking off the flurry of confusing emotions, I grab the leather laptop bag I borrowed from Elodie and make my way inside. My usual boho-print canvas tote wouldn’t exactly fit in with the high-class, professional crowd I’m about to face.

At the reception desk, the woman greets me with a polished smile. “Miss Pershing, I have your name here. Please take the left elevator and press the ‘R’ button. That’s Mr. Teager’s private elevator. I’ll authorize your access.”

“Oh, The Shark has his own private elevator.”

Of course, his receptionist doesn’t seem to find my joke amusing. Once the elevator doors close, I finally give myself a thorough once-over in the mirrored walls. God bless concealer. I probably used my yearly quota to cover every inch of my tattoos.

The doors open to a sleek, spacious lobby that’s so quiet it feels like stepping into a library. I’m about to move forward when his voice echoes throughout the space.

“Where do you think you’re going, Miss Pershing?”

My lips curl up, almost involuntarily. What is it about this man’s voice that’s starting to mess with me?

I turn, fully expecting his usual smirk, but it slips. His expression changes so fast—his eyes burn with intensity, a dark fire flickering beneath the surface.

He looks upset. At me?

I LIKE YOU JITTERY

WILLO

Raymond’s gaze trails down from my face to my neck, then to my arms, lingering just long enough to make me hyperaware of every inch of my skin. I picked the most professional outfit I own, but by the way he’s looking at me, you’d think I showed up in a potato sack.

“What?” The irritation slips out before I can stop it.

“Nothing. Let’s go. The meeting’s about to start.”

I thought we were making progress, that maybe we weren’t constantly at each other’s throats anymore, but now…

What the hell happened during my walk from the parking lot to his office?

I follow him down the long lobby, trying to ignore how annoyingly perfect he looks in that navy suit. It’s tailored to perfection, with subtle lines you wouldn’t even notice unless you were standing too close—which, unfortunately, I am. His watch catches the light—a quick glint of silver against the pastel blue of his shirt cuffs.

The man knows how to dress, I’ll give him that.

We stop outside a sleek black door, and Raymond turns, giving me a quick once-over. “Good luck.”

The butterflies in my stomach morph into full-blown vultures. I’m so out of place here—in this dress, in this entire situation. My gaze drops, but before I can let my mind race off the edge, Raymond’s hands rest firmly on my shoulders, pulling my attention back up.

“Listen, Willow.” His voice is low, steady, and commanding. “The men in there? They’re pros at making you feel like you don’t belong. But no one in that room knows this land or cares about your wedding estate more than you do. Not a single one. Don’t let them see a flicker of doubt, hesitation, or nerves. You walk in there like you own that damn room. Because, Firefly, you do.”

I take a shaky breath, trying to absorb some of his unshakable confidence. “I’ve never done this before.”

He leans in, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my ear. “You have. With me. From our very first meeting, I knew you weren’t going to let that land go without a fight. I’ve never had to work so hard to close a deal. And if today proves anything, it’s that you’ve won. So now, let’s finish this.”

My heart thuds in my chest, racing for reasons that have nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the way his finger brushes lightly against my cheek.

“You’ve got this, Firefly. Trust your gut. It’s never steered you wrong.”

I freeze, my brain short-circuiting at his casual use of that ridiculous nickname—and the way my body reacts to his touch.