8. Not Your Soul. Not Your Limb. Just You
NOT YOUR SOUL. NOT YOUR LIMB. JUST YOU
RAYMOND
I find myself back at the same damn table at La Bella Vita, but this time, the power dynamic has flipped. I’m the one waiting for Willow Pershing, and I’m the one who wants to have an amicable conversation. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I glance at my watch. For the first time, she’s late to a meeting—completely intentional, no doubt.
Should I be impressed? Annoyed? Maybe a little bit of both.
The waitress glides past me again, batting her lashes so fast I’m half worried she’ll lose her ability to see.
“Still nothing for you?” she asks, with a voice too sweet for my current mood.
“No, thanks.” My irritation’s bubbling under the surface, but my mom raised me right. Always be respectful to women. Of course, if you ask Willow, she’d probably laugh in my face and tell Mom I was “disrespectful” just for breathing in her general direction.
Yeah, somehow we bring out the toddler in each other.
There’s something about this woman that makes me forget every bit of training I’ve had on how to keep my cool. It’s like she knows where the buttons are, and she doesn’t just press them—she leans on them with all her weight.
I unlock my phone screen and scroll through our last text conversation, wondering if I should’ve handled it differently. Probably.
“So, what is it you want to talk about?” Her voice snaps me out of my head.
Willow’s standing there, her ever-present giant tote bag making a loud clunk as she sets it down on the table. For all I know, she’s brought a set of knives just in case she needs to use them against me.
“Why don’t you sit down, and we’ll talk?” I say, keeping it calm.
She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. “Why don’t you say what you have to say, and I’ll be on my way?”
Damn, this woman.
The sheer nerve of her makes me want to both throttle her and kiss her—though I’d never admit that last part.
Am I really thinking what I’m thinking?
“Can we call a temporary ceasefire?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m begging, and I don’t know if I’m at all successful.
“That’s rich, coming from your mouth, since the last time we were here, I proposed exactly that. And not only did you reject it, but you disrespected me by taking a call from whomever was your sweetheart that day.” Her voice drips with anger, and her face flushes red, a color I’ve started to imagine on her for entirely different reasons.
You’re in deep shit, Raymond.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” The apology slips out before I even think about it, and based on the shocked look on her face, I’m guessing it’s the last thing she expected to hear.
But then she regroups, crossing her arms tighter, so I push further.
“It was Quill on the phone that day. My phone remains on silent during all of my meetings, except for when she calls. I don’t care if I’m sitting with the president himself, if my daughter calls, I answer. Period. It wasn’t personal, and it wasn’t meant to disrespect you.”
Her jaw drops like she’s seeing me for the first time. Honestly, I don’t blame her—I haven’t exactly given her a reason to think much of me.
“Fine,” she says, as if acknowledging that she’s slightly less mad about it now is some kind of concession.
Progress.
I take in her whole look. She’s wearing a white spaghetti-strap sundress with little strawberries printed all over it, like she’s strolling in from a summer picnic. It’s casual, effortless, and annoyingly cute. Her wrist is weighed down by a stack of silver bracelets, complementing the rings on her fingers. Her hair is pulled up into one of those messy buns. Her lips are painted in her signature light orange color that reminds me of a sunrise. She has almost no makeup on her face except for her mascara, which makes her freckles stand out even more.
Willow Pershing looks devastatingly beautiful.
And it somehow fits, since every waking minute, and maybe even during her sleep-filled ones, she wishes for my devastation.
“You gonna finish mentally insulting me, or can we move on to the part where I leave and get back to people who actually like me?” She tilts her head, waiting for me to either spit out an insult or a reason for her to stay.
“I don’t hate you, you know,” I say, letting the words land. “Someone would have to be pretty damn miserable to hate you.”
Her eyes widen comically, but no words make it out for several beats, pulling a chuckle out of me.
“I’m not that bad. Stop making me the villain.”
She shrugs, unimpressed, and for a second I want to keep arguing. But if we’re gonna get anywhere, we have to stop circling each other like this.
“Take a seat, Willow.” I use her name this time, watching the way it makes her pause. She still looks suspicious as hell, but thankfully she takes the seat.
Progress. Again.
“Now can you get to the point?” she asks, tapping her fingers on the table like she’s counting down the seconds until she can bolt.
I take a deep breath, locking eyes with her. “I’ve got a proposition.”
I can practically feel her eyes narrowing, daring me to say something stupid. She’s ready—primed to grab that oversized bag of hers and clobber me with it at the first wrong move.
“Oh really? So where am I and my future generations working this time?” Her voice drips with sarcasm.
Did I seriously make her that offer? Yeah, I did. And it was a damn good one too. But leave it to her to twist it into some sort of medieval family-legacy blackmail situation.
“Your future generations are out of this one,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light.
Her eyebrow arches, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Oh, the billionaire turned stingy. Business not doing so well?”
“Fortunately, your curses haven’t sunk my company just yet. This proposition is…personal.”
She blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Personal? I didn’t know you had a personal life. I thought destroying small businesses was your full-time job.”
I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t destroying your business, Willow. I was trying to stop you from launching another one.” Saying her name is slowly becoming natural.
She tilts her head, giving me that slow, scrutinizing look. “Was? The last time I checked, you’re still doing so.”
Am I seriously considering bringing her to my house?
Yeah, but I’ve got a damn good reason for that. So let’s focus on that, Teager.
“How about I help you keep your land?”
Her face heats like I’ve suggested she sell her soul, not acquire real estate. “Like I said last night, how about you stop plotting with my snake of a cousin, and I’ll keep the land just fine.”
I sigh. “Are you seriously that naive? I’m one of many buyers on your cousin’s list. Sure, I’m the highest bidder, but if I back out, it’s not like your cousin’s handing you a deed with a bow on top. I’m not the one standing between you and your land.”
She goes quiet, her gaze drilling into me, so intense I almost feel the need to squirm. “Is this some kind of reverse psychology? ’Cause it’s not working.”
I chuckle, leaning back. “Why do you distrust me so much?”
Her eyes bore into mine. “You really have to ask?”
Yeah, okay. Fair point. I’m not exactly Mr. Trustworthy in her book.
“I can help you get back sole ownership of your land—for real this time. You’ll own it free and clear, and no one can take that away.”
Her face softens a fraction, hope flickering behind her stubborn stance. But just as quickly, it’s replaced by suspicion.
“And what am I giving up for that? A limb? My soul?” Her tone’s lighter, but I can tell she’s bracing herself.
“Neither.” I pause, letting that sink in. “But I do need something from you. I want you to work for me.”
She stills for a second and then bursts out laughing. “Work for you? Are you kidding? I’m not a desk-job type.”
“I know.” And I really do. She’s way too wild for that. Asking Willow to sit at a desk would be like trapping a fairy and expecting her magic to work in a cubicle.
Comparing real-life women—especially one who looks like she’s plotting my demise—to fairies is possibly a side effect of being a single dad of a girl who loves books.
“The job is Quill’s nanny.” I finally lay it all out.
Willow’s whole demeanor shifts at the mention of my daughter’s name, and I feel a sliver of hope that this crazy plan of mine might actually work. I’m pretty sure Daisy already filled her in about Quill’s situational mutism. Not that I’m mad—Daisy loves my kid and would never gossip unnecessarily about her.
Willow opens and closes her mouth a few times before finding her words. “Nanny? Are you out of your damn mind? I actually might be better at a job in your company. What sort of dad are you to trust me with your daughter’s safety? I have zero background in childcare.”
I hold up a hand before she can completely spiral. “Willow, I’ve hired the best people with every degree under the sun, who have taken care of more kids than are in this town altogether. But for some reason, Quill chose you. Not them. You.”
The silence that follows is thick, like we’re both waiting for the other to blink first. For the first time since this conversation started, Willow seems genuinely speechless.
“What do you really want?” she finally asks quietly.
“I want my daughter to come out of her shell and not cower away as soon as she sees a stranger.” And maybe even speak all her thoughts out loud. At least to me.
Her gaze softens and I realize she has never once looked at me like this…with so much emotion. “I like Quill…very much. She’s such a sweet kid. But I don’t need to be a nanny to spend time with her. I’ll hang out with her anytime you want.”
“No, that’s not enough. I need you with her full-time. You’d have to move in. Can you delegate Whispering Willow to someone else for a while? If not, I can help you find a perfect temporary manager.” In my mind, I’m already thinking about contacting my HR head to find the best candidate for the job.
“Raymond, stop.” Hearing my name from her lips feels like a hammer hit me right in my chest. Her shocked voice is featherlight. “Move into your house?”
When I look up at Willow, she’s staring at me like I just suggested we elope.
“This isn’t right,” she continues. “Not for me, and certainly not for you. I get that you’re scared…” Before I can correct her, she does it herself, giving me a pointed look. “Okay, macho man. Maybe not scared, but still, do you even know what you’re asking? For your own sake?”
I blink, thrown by her reasoning. She’s concerned about me?
“Don’t worry about me.” Those words feel strange coming from my lips and being directed toward Willow, who was Miss Pershing until last night. “But if it makes you feel better, I can have an employment contract in writing.”
“It’s not that.” She shakes her head, eyes steady on mine. “I never thought I’d say this. I trust you here. But…what if my presence doesn’t help…the way you expect?” Willow looks away. “You’re putting too much pressure on everyone.”
Her concern stings more than I expected. I rake a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of everything on my shoulders. “How about we decide on a deadline?” A plan forms on the fly. “You work for me until your new wedding estate is ready. If nothing else, I think my daughter is going to enjoy having you and your dog at my home temporarily.” I try to lift my lips, making light of the discussion.
“It’s nice to hear someone else call it my new estate, but I still can’t accept your offer. Unfortunately, my plan’s not happening.” The resolute but defeated expression on her face shocks and scares the hell out of me.
“What do you mean? You changed your mind?” I clench my fists, but my nails digging into my palms relax as Willow lets out a shuddering breath.
“My investor did. She pulled out yesterday. So even if I want to help, I really can’t.”
Fuck! For a second, I forget the entire reason we’re here. “I…I’m sorry to hear that.”
Willow is about to rise and leave, turning this meeting into a failure, when I say, “I can help you find another investor. Equally good, if not better.”
Instead of jumping at the chance, she stares at me. “You’d do all that, knowing you might not get what you want in the end? I used to think you were a much smarter businessman.”
But that’s the thing—I’m not here as a businessman. “Today, I’m just a dad.”
She falters, and I can see her resolve cracking, her fingers tapping the table nervously.
And that’s when I catch a glimpse of her nails—green paint with a tiny black feather, just like what I saw on Quill’s nails last night.
I always knew Willow was different than most women. I can’t believe my daughter realized that too, and in just one meeting.
“Willow, take a day to think about it. I’ll get you the best investor, and you can build the business you and your grandpa dreamed of.”