Imperfect Arrangement (Elixir Bachelor Billionaires #2)

1. An “A” Word

AN “A” WORD

RAYMOND

“W hat is it that can’t be discussed over a call?” The words scrape against my tongue as I settle into my chair across from the woman who’s been my personal headache for the last six months.

Willow Pershing.

The fiery redhead with a death grip on the one piece of land that’s standing between me and the most ambitious project my company, Elixir Estates, has ever tackled. My dream hotel—a landmark that’ll not only put Cherrywood on the map but send our company’s portfolio skyrocketing.

But because of her, the project’s at a standstill.

She catches my eye and immediately rolls her lips into a line, a small scowl forming as if her face naturally molds itself into irritation whenever she sees me.

I shouldn’t find it attractive. But, inconveniently, I do.

Willow’s hair, that wild copper mess, is tied up in her signature bun, loose strands framing her face like she didn’t even bother fixing it up for me. For this meeting, I mean.

Yet she’s stunning, with that untamed look that’s entirely her own. Dark kohl lines her eyes, and auburn lashes fan across her freckled cheeks. Her lips are painted some shade that hovers between red and orange, with just enough shimmer to make them look distractingly fuller and, hell, kissable.

Dammit.

“Mr. Teager,” she interrupts my mental sidetrack, leaning back in her chair. We’re seated in the private area away from the lunch-hour clientele at La Bella Vita, the most overpriced Italian restaurant in town. I’m not sure why Willow picked this spot when she’s—of course—against all things extravagant.

Even after months of knowing each other, we still aren’t on a first-name basis.

And that’s fine with me. Being too close to this woman feels like playing with fire—something that would start slow but leave behind nothing but smoking ruin.

“I trust you have something important since you saw fit to harass my assistant for this meeting, Miss Pershing.” My voice drops to that controlled, borderline-indifferent tone I know will coax that adorable scowl back onto her face. It’s a dangerous game, but I’m becoming fond of her disdain toward me.

Willow Pershing hates me, and I’m supposed to feel the same way. We’re business enemies, after all.

I’m the buyer interested in her grandfather’s disputed land—the stretch of property I already promised to my shareholders. My jaw tightens as I recall the flood of texts and emails from the board, all demanding updates on a project that hasn’t moved in six months, all because of this stubborn, irritatingly beautiful woman sitting across from me.

“So The Shark pretends to care about his employees,” Willow mutters just loud enough for me to catch, and damn, my lips twitch on reflex.

I press my fingers against my mouth, trying to smother the grin creeping up. Normally, I’d hate the nickname the media slapped on me, but hearing it from her? It almost sounds like a compliment.

“Anyway,” she continues, clearly eager to get this over with. “Last week, I received confirmation from both my grandfather’s specialist and attending physician.”

She pauses, her eyes fixed on mine, waiting for a reaction. She’s not getting one, though, even if her deep gaze almost makes me squirm. Almost.

“The official documents clearly state that when he updated his will and named me the sole owner of his land, my grandfather was fully sane and knew exactly what he was doing.” She keeps her gaze locked on me, and despite myself, I can’t help but admire her grit.

Willow Pershing is a fighter. She’s been battling me for months, determined to hold on to what she believes is hers, even if she’s wrong.

Normally, getting someone to sell me a piece of land takes maybe two meetings, tops. But Willow? She’s been immune to every tactic I’ve thrown her way.

I offered her more money than most people would dream of—enough to buy an even bigger property right here in Cherrywood. That was met with flat-out rejection. Same with the job offer I dangled in front of her—a permanent position at any of my hotels, a salary high enough to make someone consider selling their soul. She didn’t just decline; she gasped like I’d offended her on a cosmic level, muttering a few choice words under her breath that I’m pretty sure were meant for me.

And then she reminded me, quite passionately, that she’s already a business owner, running her family B&B with her mother and nana just fine, thank you very much.

So here we are, at a deadlock. Neither of us willing to back down.

It’s frustrating, sure. But it’s also what makes her so damn interesting. I wasn’t expecting to be up against someone like her. Raised by a single mom, I’ve always had huge respect for women who fight for what’s theirs. But Willow Pershing? She’s practically the poster girl for female entrepreneurship. I’ve got to give her that much.

“This evidence would hold up in court, if that’s the road my cousin—and your best friend—wants to go down,” she says, looking smug like she’s already won this round. But she couldn’t be more off base.

Gio, her so-called cousin, is about as close to being my “best friend” as I am to considering his existence tolerable. I hate the guy almost as much as I admire her. Unlike Willow, he’s a spineless weasel. An opportunist who’d rather chase a payout than stand by family. If he’s got any use to me, it’s because he’s the legal owner of the property Willow claims to be hers.

Her grandfather had set the scene for this whole mess, writing up his first will with the coveted land going to his brother, Gio’s grandfather. But then the family had a falling out, and instead of fixing his mistake right then, Willow’s grandfather waited too long. By the time he intended to update his will, dementia had already started stealing his mind. The entire town knows about it.

“This document proves my grandfather was of sound mind when he updated his will,” she reiterates as if I didn’t hear her the first time. “And his doctors would happily testify to that if we end up in court.” Her tone is steel, sharp enough to cut through glass—and my objections, if I dared to voice them.

But I’m not an ordinary businessman. My tolerance for failure is right there at the bottom of the ocean with my tolerance for lies and incompetence. I also didn’t become one of the country’s top hoteliers by taking words at face value. I know how to watch what lies beneath them.

And right now, Willow’s pulse is racing, her fingers trembling slightly under the glass table between us. For all her bravado, she believes her claim about as much as she’d believe the earth is flat.

I open my mouth, ready to call out her pile of nonsense. But something tugs at me, tight in my chest, dulling that edge of satisfaction I’d usually feel right about now. She affects me in ways I don’t have the words for.

Clearing my throat, I lean back. “Is that optimism talking, or did you actually consult a lawyer?”

Her victorious grin slips, and I hate the downturn of her lips, but she schools her features fast.

If I’m getting more and more affected by Willow Pershing, she’s wearing her immunity to me like armor these days, batting back my every little dig with ease.

She rests her hands on the table, fingers laced together. My gaze drifts, almost on its own, over the thin metallic rings on her fingers. I stop for a beat, like always, at the silver bracelet with a small sunflower hanging from a loop, then traverse my gaze up, following the black vines of tattoos that climb from her wrists to disappear beneath the straps of her sundress. Every time I see those intricate lines, I get the insatiable urge to know the story behind each curl, each line, each colorful bloom. That nonsensical part of my brain has latched on to this idea that everything about Willow has a reason.

“I haven’t consulted a lawyer, but I know it’s worth something.” Her voice pulls me back from my distracted spiral.

I refocus, straightening the vase of summer flowers on the table. Anything to keep my expression neutral, and to pretend Willow Pershing doesn’t have me this disturbed.

“For someone on the verge of losing something so crucial, you surprise me, Miss Pershing.” I do my best to keep my real thoughts locked down.

“That’s because, unlike you, I still believe there’s room for an amicable solution.” Despite her words, her tone is sharp.

Amicable? Did she really just say that?

That’s not the A-word I’d use for us. Animosity fits much better.

Our relationship—business relationship, I mean—has been a tug-of-war. The kind that usually ends with one side dragging the other through the mud. I can’t remember the last time I spent this much energy dancing around a business deal. Usually, I’d be laying out my terms with a flat palm on the table and a firm statement of my position. But none of my past opponents had a mind like hers—or looked anything like this particular spitfire with a steely resolve. She’s everything I admire in a person, and it’s a pity that we’re on opposite sides, because despite my admiration and respect for Willow, that land is going to be mine. Losing is not a word in my vocabulary.

If we’d met under different circumstances—an entirely possible scenario, considering Willow is best friends with my sister-in-law, Daisy—I might have let myself explore this strange pull I feel toward her. Because every time I see that determined tilt to her mouth, something inside me hums to life, like it’s waiting for permission to react.

But now? There’s too much on the line. My reputation, the image of Elixir Estates, and a whole new set of priorities since my life flipped on its head six months ago. Dating, casual or otherwise, never had too much place in my life, but now those words don’t exist for me at all.

Am I upset? Not even a fucking bit. It’s a small price to pay for what I’ve gained in return—my daughter, Quill. My book- and sunflower-obsessed girl.

“Amicable?” I lift a brow. “Didn’t know that word was in your dictionary, Miss Pershing.”

Her cheeks flush—not from embarrassment or attraction, but with that telltale anger that’s become almost predictable.

“So tell me,” I continue, “how exactly you envision an ‘amicable’ resolution here, given that we’re firmly planted in a stalemate.”

She hesitates, seemingly wrestling with some inner logic, but then her eyes sharpen. “I have a proposition.” It’s clear she doesn’t trust me one bit. I can see it in every subtle tic—the blink, the tense jaw, the faint line between her brows.

Some people are transparent that way, and it’s both her strength and her weakness. In a business world that demands detachment, Willow wears her heart on her sleeve. And maybe, just maybe, I’m trying to spare her future bruises by taking this land off her hands. Yet if I were to say that out loud, she would probably chop my head off and place it on this very table.

“I’m listening,” I say instead, humoring her for a second. Nothing she says can change my mind unless she’s here to finally accept my job offer, which again, is an impossibility. Submitting to defeat is not in her nature.

We’re two kindred spirits in that sense.

She digs into her oversized tote bag and pulls out a laptop before flipping it open and turning it toward me. For a fleeting second, her confidence wobbles, her fingers hovering as she sets up the presentation. “Hear me out. All the way, okay?”

The guarded look in her eyes cuts right through me, reminding me of my daughter, especially those moments when Quill pauses, eyes searching, knowing I’m waiting for her to find her words—even if they come back in sign language.

“It seems I don’t have much of a choice since you blocked out an hour in my calendar.”

That does the trick. Willow’s confidence kicks back in, her spine straightening. “Good. I won’t let you leave until I’m finished.” She presses a key, bringing the first slide to life.

The title: A Shared Dream.

She doesn’t need to say another word—I already know what it’s about.

The little girl sitting under a weeping willow tree with fiery red pigtails, gazing out over the very property we’re here to discuss, is unmistakably Willow. And the elderly man beside her, whose proud gaze mirrors hers, must be her grandfather.

“My gramps and I shared this dream. To build the biggest wedding estate right in the middle of Cherrywood. It will be luxurious but also charming and intimate, representing every bit of that cozy, rustic vibe our town stands for.”

Her words have a raw edge that draws me in, her face softened with nostalgia and determination. The kind of look that says she’s here to fight for a future that still haunts her memories. And fuck if I don’t feel that.

“This is his legacy, and I owe it to him.” She clicks through the slides, each image a tribute to the man who, despite what I’m sure were good intentions, messed up big-time.

Two wills. Two owners. One land.

There can be only one winner, and right now, Willow is on the losing side. Me suddenly developing a soft spot for her won’t do either of us any good. “I’m still not hearing the proposition, Miss Pershing.”

“I’m offering you a partnership in my project.” She straightens, gripping her laptop like it’s her lifeline. “I’ve been running my family’s B and B for years. I can show you the financials of Whispering Willow to prove I know the hospitality business. All I’m asking is for you to be a silent partner in exchange for twenty percent.”

Her words spill out fast, each one layered with determination and desperation, and I can’t look away. Not because she’s beautiful—although she is—but because I didn’t see this coming. A partnership was never on the table.

“What changed?”

She slumps, like she’d hoped I wouldn’t ask the details but somehow knew I would. “There’s a big investor interested in my project…but they’ve already waited six months and can’t wait any longer.” She meets my gaze. “I don’t have that kind of capital. If I don’t do this now, it may never happen.”

Something twists in my chest as she lowers her head, loose curls spilling over her eyes.

“You don’t know that. Nothing is over in business until there’s ink on a contract.” I hear the words leaving my mouth, and they surprise even me. I should want her to fold, to hand it over—but apparently, my tongue has other ideas.

She blinks, seemingly equally shocked, then extends her hand, that fire back in her gaze. “Then sign with me. I?—”

The shrill sound of my phone cuts her off.

The chief IT engineer at Elixir Tech set up my phone so that only one specific contact can ring through, while the rest of my contacts stay on Do Not Disturb. It’s the only way to make sure I’m always available for my daughter.

“Do you really have to take that now?” Willow arches an eyebrow, hand still held out above the table.

“I do.” I get why she’s annoyed. I’d probably feel the same if someone pulled out their phone mid-meeting, but she doesn’t know what Quill means to me.

“Hey, hon, is everything okay?” I answer, my voice too bright, too eager, as if maybe this time my daughter will be the one answering. Instead, it’s Grandpa Will, my father’s former butler and the man temporarily filling in as Quill’s nanny.

“Quill would like to host a dinner party this Friday.”

“Excuse me for a second,” I murmur to Willow, already rising from my seat and leaving before she can protest, but when it comes to my daughter, nothing else in my life takes priority.

I slip away to a quiet corner and switch the call to video. My daughter’s face fills the screen, blonde hair perfectly braided into a fishtail from this morning. Honestly, my best work yet!

“Hey, Bug! So you’re planning a party?” I ask out loud in clear, crisp words.

Her nod is immediate, eyes wide with excitement.

“Who’s on the guest list?”

She signs a roll call of my cousins’ names, starting with Rowan, naturally—her favorite—and then adding Archer, Alex, Charles, and, of course, Daisy.

“Aunt Chloe is out of town,” she signs, which reminds me to check in with my cousin.

“That’s quite the guest list. What’s the occasion?”

Her mischievous smile is answer enough, and I can’t help but return it.

“What don’t I know here, Quill?”

“Aunt Daisy’s going to bake cupcakes at our house, and she said I can help. We are going to make yellow frosting like sunflowers,” she signs, the proud excitement practically radiating from her.

“Sounds good to me,” I say. “But you have to follow every one of Daisy’s instructions, alright? Kitchens are no joke, and I don’t want you getting hurt.”

She nods seriously, and I can’t help but feel my heart squeeze. “Alright, I’ll see you tonight, honey.”

I end the call, checking the time.

Fuck. I’ve kept Willow waiting way longer than I planned.

When I get back, Willow’s laptop is closed, her bag already slung over her shoulder, her whole posture screaming, I’m done here .

“You were saying something?” I ask, running a hand over my jaw, trying to figure out if apologizing is in order. She was mid-pitch, after all.

But that thing called stubborn male ego is a bitch.

“Oh, I was,” she replies with a veneer of forced politeness that does nothing to hide the fury in her eyes. “I just didn’t realize I was sitting across from someone who completely disregards business etiquette and basic respect.” She shakes her head like she’s trying to keep herself from going off on me in every language she knows.

I’d laugh if the guilt weren’t creeping up on me, and I hate feeling guilty, even if I have a damn good reason to.

“Anyway,” she continues, gaze drilling into mine. “I think you caught the main idea. So…do you agree?”

I pause, not because of any dramatics, but simply because I want to tell this to her nicely. But after a few moments, I realize there’s no nice way to say it. So, here it goes.

“Not at all,” I say, letting it sink in. “My company doesn’t do cozy and rustic. Plus, I’m not sure what gave you the idea that there was room for negotiation here.”

If my cousins are coming over this weekend, one of them, if not all, will definitely ask about the status of the land deal. By now, everyone knows the situation between Willow and me. In fact, they have been witnesses of our heated arguments where it’s appeared we were a breath away from ripping each other’s throats out. I have no clue when it started, but now my cousins are taking sadistic pleasure in my discomfort. I need to stop this shit right now.

“But since you went to all the effort”—I gesture to her bag and the laptop inside—“let me make you a counterproposal. All your delays are doing is stalling what’s already in motion. So, Miss Pershing, here’s my offer: let me build Cherrywood’s biggest luxury hotel on that land, and I’ll make sure you, and your future generations, always have a place at Elixir Estates.”

Her face turns such a bright red that I almost feel the heat, and she reminds me of the carrot character in one of Quill’s storybooks.

“For the record, I already have a family business, in case you’ve forgotten! We don’t need anything from a business shark like you.”

“I wouldn't say anything , since you went to all the trouble of making these slides and pitching this amicable proposition.”

All the restraint Willow’s barely been holding on to snaps, and in an instant, I see the woman I’ve come to both admire and regret ever meeting blaze to life right in front of me.

“You know, I must have completely lost it to think you were capable of empathy,” she seethes, her tone laced with contempt. “They don’t call you The Shark for nothing—you’re so freaking emotionless and selfish. I…I was an idiot to even try to have a civil discussion with you today.” Her gaze flicks to the phone still in my hand, the one I had to pick up mid-meeting. “I just hope the girl in your life realizes soon enough that she’s only wasting her time. There’s no reason for her to lose sleep or give you her all when she’s going to get nothing in return.”

And just like that, her words hit me square in the weakest spot of my chest. Because the truth is, the one person who means everything to me isn’t giving me her all.

Quill and I have been through a parade of doctors and therapists who all tell me the same thing: physically, there’s nothing wrong with my daughter. It’s situational mutism, they say. A complex web of anxiety that keeps her voice locked away from me and everyone else. They promise she’ll find someone one day, someone she’s comfortable enough with, and then she’ll start speaking. I always thought that someone would be me, but slowly, I’m losing my grip on that hope.

And if that wasn’t enough, Quill has withdrawn further, shying away from kids her age and anyone outside my family. I’ve tried everything. I’ve brought in child specialists with personalities so vibrant they could get a stone to laugh. Yet no one has managed to crack through her shell.

I press my fists into the table, jaw tight. “Why don’t you worry about your own losing battle, Miss Pershing, and I’ll take care of my personal life. Because despite my ‘selfish’ nature, I have someone to lose. But looking at you, I doubt there’s a man in the world who could handle this kind of temperamental behavior. And since we’re being ‘honest’ now,” I say, leaning in, “being all heart and emotional in business meetings? That’s what’s damn unprofessional.”

She doesn’t hesitate to prove my point, slamming her hand down on the table as she rises. “Next time, Mr. Teager, we’ll be meeting in court.”

“Can’t wait.” The words scrape out like gravel. I toss some cash onto the table, enough to cover a week’s entire lunch rush, and walk away, feeling the usual guilt press down with each step.

Every damn time I end a meeting with Willow Pershing, the same guilt lingers like a bad taste.

Fucking useless morals.

I’m not taking anything from her—at least not anything she rightfully owns.