Page 51 of Imperfect Arrangement

I almost gasp. “What did you just do?”

“Distracted you.” He grins, that infuriatingly cocky smirk that both annoys and unsettles me, while the fluttering in my chest threatens to burst.

“By making memorenervous?” My voice comes out embarrassingly high-pitched.

“Does being close to me make you nervous, Miss Pershing?” His eyebrow quirks, and I have the sudden urge to stomp on his foot like a petulant child—so I do.

“Don’t get cute with me, Teager.”

He barely releases anumphbefore chuckling, the sound low and entirely too attractive for its own good. “Ah, there’s my girl. Now, let’s go knock this out of the park. Just follow your gut.”

But that’s the thing—my gut is screaming that everything about this day is…off. I don’t quite belong here, not like this.

We step into the room, and the first thing I notice is the sea of identical black suits. If it weren’t for the different colored ties, I’d swear they all shopped at the same store. The room smells like cologne and testosterone.

Archer, Raymond’s cousin, begins introducing everyone, but their names barely register. Nerves twist in my stomach, and it’s like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“And this is Willow Pershing,” Archer says, gesturing to me. “Owner of the Whispering Willow, a family-run B and B nestled right next to the property we’re discussing today. Elixir Estates is partnering with Miss Pershing to build the largest wedding estate in the state—cozy, rustic, yet luxurious.”

“Wedding estate?” one of the suits interrupts, barely letting Archer finish. “Wasn’t the original plan a luxury hotel, Raymond?”

“I know, Jack, but trust me, this pivot will be worth it.”

“Why the change? Was there an issue with the original idea?”

I wasn’t expecting questions so soon, and they throw me off-balance. Meanwhile, Raymond stands beside me, looking completely unbothered.

“Jack, how about we let Willow explain?” Raymond says calmly while I do my best to keep my composure.

“But that’s what I don’t get,” Jack persists, ignoring Raymond. “What’s Miss Pershing’s involvement here?”

“Willow will be leading the project,” Raymond replies, his voice steady and unfazed. “I’ll be more of a silent partner, getting involved as often as I’m needed. Gentlemen, give us a chance to show you what’s on the table.”

I clear my throat and step forward. The first slide lights up the screen—a detailed rendering of the wedding estate I’ve spent countless hours perfecting with Elixir Estates’ design team. Seeing it displayed like this feels like a lifeline in a sea of doubt.

“So…” I start, then mentally kick myself.

Sound confident, Willow. No more so’s or um’s,I hear Raymond’s PR-manager voice echo in my mind.

“Our plan is to create the largest wedding estate—one that preserves Cherrywood’s unique charm while also?—”

“Miss Pershing, what’s your interest in this land?” Jack interrupts.

“I inherited it from my grandfather,” I say, steadying my voice.

“Ah, I see,” he mutters, barely looking up as he types furiously on his phone, as if whatever’s on his screen is more important than my presentation.

I pause, heart pounding, scrambling to pick up where I left off. “When celebrities come to Cherrywood for a destination wedding, they’re probably not looking for—” I gulp, my throat dry. “I mean, they’redefinitelynot looking for anything flashy. They want that small-town charm, and that’s what we try to give—” I stop, catching myself again. “I mean, that’s what wewillgive them.”

The second I say it, I cringe inside. Everything feels off—too wordy, too uncertain, like I’m contradicting myself. I try to shake off the nerves, but they cling to me like static. My hands are clammy, and I haven’t made eye contact with a single person since I started. Instead, I’ve been fixated on a potted plant in the far corner of the room—at least it doesn’t look like it’s judging me.

When I finally sneak a glance at the men around the table, all I catch is their blank, bored stares, and I know I’ve lost them. My stomach sinks, and the familiar tightness in my throat returns, making it hard to swallow.

But before I can dig myself deeper into this hole, Raymond steps forward. “How about a short break? I’ve arranged a spread from Cakes for All with their famous lattes,” he announces.

Suddenly, the room that felt like a funeral for enthusiasm lights up. Suits shuffle, conversations pick up, and the energy shifts from stiff to relaxed as everyone filters out.

Archer, the last to leave, pauses in the doorway, eyebrows raised, looking as puzzled as I feel by this unscheduled intermission. He glances between Raymond and me, a silent question hanging in the air, before heading out.