Page 62 of Imperfect Arrangement

Desperate to steer the moment back to something safer, I gesture toward the ashtray. “Was there something in that?” I ask, my tone light, casual, a lifeline to drag us both out of emotional quicksand.

His lips twitch, like he’s caught off guard but also a little relieved by the shift. “It’s a once-in-a-while thing,” he admits, voice quiet. “I don’t usually smoke, but some days?—”

“You don’t have to explain,” I cut in quickly. “It’s your home, Raymond. You don’t owe me anything.” And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s already handed me more of himself than anyone else ever has.

“It’s yours too, for the time being,” he replies without missing a beat, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Thank you…for saying that.”

“I mean it,” he adds, his tone steady. “I don’t want you to feel like a guest here. I’ve already taken more than I bargained for with this arrangement. So, if there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, let me know.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard those words in this house. Grandpa Will has been endlessly hospitable since day one. But hearing it from Raymond? It hits different.

“Don’t go all sweet on me, Teager,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Or have you forgotten? I consider you a villain in my life’s story.”

He chuckles, the warm sound rolling over me like a blanket I didn’t ask for but suddenly want. “In that case, let me see if this can compensate for all my past villainous activities. I’ve got something for you.”

He reaches for the jacket draped over the armrest. His hand disappears into the pocket, and when it reemerges, he’s holding a small blue velvet box, which he slides across the table toward me.

“What the heck is this, Raymond?” My voice barely makes it above a whisper, caught somewhere between shock and disbelief.

“It’s not a bomb, Willow.” He leans back, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to wear it all the time,” he explains, his tone calm but measured, like he’s working through a script in his head. “But you’ll be meeting the board for project updates, and I’d rather not add another layer of lies about my fiancée not having a ring because it’s at the jewelers for fitting. So…” His eyes lock on mine, waiting.

My head feels like it’s going to split open from the mental gymnastics.

He’s offering me an engagement ring so we don’t have to lie! What in the fresh hell is this?

I stay frozen, my hands refusing to move, and he sighs and continues. “If you don’t like it, I can exchange it. I told the owner of Hart Jewelers that my fiancée might like to change it.”

Fiancée.

He says the word so effortlessly, like it’s a natural part of his vocabulary. Meanwhile, it feels like a foreign object is lodged in my throat.

“You…you bought it yourself?” I manage to ask.

He nods, his expression unreadable, and I don’t know what else to say. My hands tremble as I reach for the box—not because I want the ring, but because I can’t stop myself from wondering what kind of ring Raymond Teager, with all his meticulous control and precision, would choose for his fiancée.

Not me, the fake one. But the real one. The woman he might one day actually love.

I flip the box open, and the world tilts for a moment.

Nestled inside is a pear-shaped moss-green sapphire cradled by a delicate gold band shaped like a feathered leaf. This isn’t a standard ring some jeweler pulled out of a display case.

No, this ring screams thoughtfulness.

It’s like Raymond didn’t just buy this—he chose it. For me, for Quill, for this insane arrangement we’ve thrown ourselves into.

“The night of the Ferris wheel, Quill mentioned how nature is the best therapy,” he said. “I’m guessing she was quoting her favorite human.”

My fingers graze the ring, tracing the intricate detail on the band. “It’s beautiful, Raymond. I…I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He hesitates before adding, “Want to try it on? To check the size?”

My heart stumbles, but I slide the ring onto my finger. It’s snug—a fraction too tight—but it feels…right. “It’s fine. Maybe a little tight, but it’s not like I’ll be wearing it every day.”

The words tumble out, more for my sake than his. Because letting myself get used to this ring, this house, this man isn’t an option. I force myself to ignore how good it feels to have someone else taking care of me and thinking about the tiny details.

Wake up, Willow. This ring is meant to sit in a box, not live on your hand like it belongs there.