9. A Neurotic Clown Fish
A NEUROTIC CLOWN FISH
RAYMOND
“D ad. Reading time,” Quill signs, her big green eyes peeking up at me from under her unruly curls as I step into her room. She’s already snuggled in her sky-blue pajamas—the ones with little puppies scattered all over them. I have no clue where this sudden dog obsession came from, but here we are.
I move closer, and she reaches for a book from the teetering, colorful stack by her bed. When I catch sight of the familiar red spine, I barely hold back a groan. Not again.
“Don’t you want to try something new tonight, Quillbug?” I ask, throwing on my best Dad’s-friendly-suggestion voice, the one that’s helped me win these little battles before.
But tonight, she shakes her head with that determined glint in her eyes that makes me chuckle. Hugging the illustrated copy of Little Women to her chest like it’s her most treasured possession, she flashes that sweet, innocent smile that leaves me defenseless every time.
What is it with her and this book? I even mentioned it to her therapist, wondering if this fixation meant something deeper. The no-nonsense woman rolled her eyes and told me to quit looking for trauma under every rock. Not everything’s a crisis. Who knew?
I settle onto her bed, propping myself up against the headboard, and Quill immediately curls up beside me, her tiny body fitting perfectly against mine. She sets the book in my lap, her head nestling on my chest, and my heart does that wild, ridiculous flip it always does whenever she snuggles in close.
I honestly can’t remember what my nights looked like before her.
Six months ago, my evenings were filled with…what? Work emails? Conference calls? Now, every moment feels like it has meaning. It’s like I’m rewriting my whole life one bedtime story at a time, using a pen dipped in pink glitter and purpose.
The cuckoo clock on her wall chimes, and a tiny wooden bird pops out as the figurines spin to the lilting “Edelweiss” tune. Above it, a framed quote my mom gifted me the day after Quill moved in reads, Dads don’t make daughters. Daughters make dads.
I had no idea how true that was going to be.
I think back to that first night, when I’d called my mom in a blind panic at three in the morning, holding a little girl who’d woken up crying, silent, refusing to say a word. I had never felt more helpless in my life. Everything was upside down—except that one clear, irrefutable fact: she needed me.
And God, I was terrified of screwing it up. Yet even on those roughest nights, she clung to me. Just like now.
Her tiny hand reaches up to smooth the frown on my forehead, pulling me back to the present. I glance down to find Quill watching me with that quiet, wise expression that makes her seem far older than six.
“All okay, Daddy?” she signs before her hand rests on my cheek.
“Everything’s perfect, Bug,” I say out loud. Her therapist has strictly advised us to always reply to her in words. Who knows what might prompt her to speak.
“You know this is a grown-up book, right?” I tap the illustrated cover, trying to lighten the moment. “I’m not even sure I understand half of it.”
Quill giggles silently, her tiny shoulders shaking in that way that never fails to make me smile. “I like the pictures,” she signs, and my heart slows down, settling back to its usual rhythm.
Thank God. My daughter is still just a kid.
I flip open the book to the first page, where four girls are huddled by a fireplace on a cold winter night.
“Dad,” Quill signs, slower this time, like she’s really thinking through her words. “Can I be a writer?”
I swallow hard, feeling a lump form in my throat. “You can be anything you want, Bug. Follow your dreams and don’t stop until you catch them.”
She beams, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I told Willow I want to be a writer.”
My heart skips a beat. Willow. I haven’t heard a peep from her since our very brief, very unfinished breakfast meeting, not that I’m counting the hours or anything. But now here she is, sneaking into my thoughts through my six-year-old daughter.
“And what did she say?” I try for a casual tone, though it probably sounds like I’m holding my breath.
Quill’s grin widens. “She said I’m her tiny surprise packet.”
Surprise packet? Yeah, that sounds like Willow.
“You like Willow, don’t you?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Some part of me just needs to hear that bringing Willow into Quill’s life as her nanny is the right call.
Quill nods with all the excitement in the world. “And also Captain Lick.”
The dog. Of course.
* * *
I’m glaring at my phone like it personally offended me, hoping it’ll vibrate. But it’s radio silent, which only solidifies my personal crusade against anyone who thinks manifesting actually works. Because ever since I tucked Quill into bed, watched her drift off mid-sentence, came back to my room, and changed for the night, all I’ve been able to think about is Willow’s answer. And still, nothing. No text. No call. Not even a half-hearted “Still thinking about it.”
I reach up to adjust my tie before realizing I’m not wearing one. Perfect. Here I am, standing dead center in my own room—the place that’s supposed to calm me—and feeling like the walls are closing in. I stride across to my nightstand and yank open the drawer, and there, sandwiched between an unread novel and a cologne bottle, is a neglected pack of cigarettes I haven’t touched in weeks.
I don’t smoke these days, but tonight? Tonight, I need something to keep my hands busy before I do something reckless, like text her first.
I step out under the pergola and a gentle breeze washes over me as if it’s trying to tell me that everything is fine, that the world is calm. But I know better. I light up and take a slow drag as I look out over the sprawling estate. Normally, this view relaxes me. Tonight, it feels…off. My fingers twitch to grab my phone and demand an answer. Hell, I should have left the damn thing inside.
But it’s too late now.
Without a second thought, I pull out my phone, unlock it, and send a quick text before I can convince myself otherwise.
Me: Have you thought about it?
Her reply comes faster than I expect.
Miss Pershing, the bane of my existence: You still want to go ahead with this crazy idea?
Me: I didn’t make the offer to retract it.
Miss Pershing, the bane of my existence: I…I’m in. But I’m telling you now, I’m getting the better end of this deal. Don’t come complaining later.
My fist tightens around the phone, where her text reminds me again that this all might just be another failed attempt for me as a dad. And before that disappointment swallows me entirely, another text comes.
Miss Pershing, the bane of my existence: Not that I don’t want your end of the bargain to be true. I actually want the opposite of it.
There’s something in those words that unravels the anxiety knotted up in me. Knowing she’s in—truly in—soothes every raw edge I’ve been carrying around since I sent that offer. Without a second thought, I update her contact.
Me: I’ll draw up the papers. Can you start tomorrow?
Willow: Tomorrow? Already?
I wait, watching the typing bubble appear and disappear as she processes.
Willow: Fine. But I can only start tomorrow evening. I’ve arranged for the day manager at Whispering Willow to take over my responsibilities, but I still have to do a proper handover.
Me: That works for me.
Willow: Um, okay then.
Me: I’ll send you my address. Do you want me to send a driver?
Willow: No, thanks. I’ll drive my own truck.
Me: And, Willow, don’t forget the dog.
Willow: Of course not. I know your daughter thinks Captain Lick and I are a package deal.
* * *
“Why do you still look so sad?” Rowan signs, his brow furrowing as he cracks open his soda and passes me one, the click of aluminum breaking the quiet night air. “Thought all your problems were solved.”
Out of all my cousins, Rowan’s the easiest to talk to, always has been. He’s got this zen thing about him—like a human Xanax. He’s the guy you spill your secrets to without fear of judgment. If secret-keeping were an Olympic sport, Rowan would always win the gold.
I roll the can between my hands, staring out at the scenery bathed in soft moonlight. Rowan’s house, nestled atop the Cherrywood hills, feels like a storybook sanctuary. It’s the kind of place where time slows and you almost forget the rest of the world even exists beyond the winding roads. When we all clung to the city, Rowan built his life out here. And maybe it wasn’t a total surprise, given his parents’ property is just a few miles away. I understand his need to stay close to Uncle Zane, his dad, the only person who gets to hear his voice now.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I nod. Beautiful is an understatement. This place is breathtaking, like the universe decided to gift wrap serenity just for him.
He gives my knee a nudge, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You wanna tell me what’s going on, or am I supposed to play ‘guess the emotion’?”
I sigh, cracking open the can and taking a swig. “You think I don’t have any problems?”
Rowan’s face breaks into a smug grin. “You convinced a business owner to quit running her family’s bed-and-breakfast and become a full-time nanny. At this point, you’re practically a god in my book.”
I let him enjoy his grin for a moment while I check my phone, glancing at the update from Grandpa Will that Quill’s still sleeping soundly. I pocket the phone and shoot Rowan a glare. “Here I was thinking you’d be the right person to talk to.”
He raises his can in a mock toast. “Seriously though, how’d you pull it off? Bribery? Threats? Blood pact?”
“Why does everyone think I’m some kind of villain? I don’t go around making threats to businesswomen, Ro.”
He leans back against the porch rail, grinning as he taps his chin thoughtfully. “Might have something to do with your aura. At work, you look like the kind of guy who could buy someone’s soul and make them say thank you. But we all know at home, you’re like Nemo’s dad.”
I don’t have to think twice about which title I like better. I’ll gladly be a neurotic clown fish than an asshole shark any day.
I push his hands away. “My aura is fine. You need glasses.”
His grin only widens, and before he can throw more wild theories my way, I decide to cut to the chase. “Quill spoke to her.” My voice is low, but the weight behind the words makes him straighten up.
If there’s anyone who would understand why I bent over backward to get Willow Pershing under my roof, even though my brain and heart are playing tug-of-war over her, it’s him. He doesn’t need to ask who “her” is. He knows.
“You heard Quill’s voice?” Rowan taps on my shoulders, dragging me away from the beautiful face of my new nanny.
I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. “No, I wasn’t there either time. She spoke twice, actually.”
His eyes widen. “Twice?”
“Yeah.” I exhale, my voice rough. “For some reason, Quill opens up to Willow. She trusts her in a way she doesn’t trust anyone else. Not even me.”
“Damn, Ray, that’s huge.” He runs a hand over his neck, eyes still wide. “So what’s Willow getting out of this job?”
Finally, he sees I’m not the one holding the cards, not the one in control. And honestly, for my daughter, I don’t mind being in this position. Hell, I’d happily trade every damn business deal I’ve ever made just to see Quill smile.
Raymond Teager, the dad, has no interest in winning.
But what about Raymond Teager, the businessman? Don’t you think you owe something to that guy and his team who have worked day and night?
That inner voice once again finds an opening.
Rowan gives my pristine Italian loafers a nudge with his muddy boots, yanking me out of my self-pity spiral.
“Isn’t this good news? Why the hell do you look so down?”
“I’m not upset. Never when it comes to Quill’s happiness…even if it means giving up everything I own.” My voice grows tight with frustration. “But I’m not an idiot, Ro. People are gonna see this as a weakness.”
“And you’ll let them trample the Elixir name?” Rowan’s words hit like a slap, cutting through my defenses.
That one simple question has me shooting up from my chair like I’ve been lit on fire. Suddenly, I can’t sit still. My body’s humming with restless energy. “I’m not letting any such thing happen. I’ve got a plan.”
What I don’t add is that I’m here to figure out if my plan makes me look like a total idiot or if it’ll be my best save.
I turn toward the city, taking in the view from his porch. The town below is quiet, washed in the soft glow of moonlight. Beyond, the Cherrywood hills stretch up toward the sky, towering over everything like silent witnesses. In a few years, I’ll be just a memory. But these hills will still be here, standing tall, untouched by time. My pride, my name, my empire—everything I’m working so damn hard for right now—will disappear the second I’m gone.
Rowan taps my shoulder, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I find him standing right beside me. “So what’s the plan?”
I take a deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs like I’m breathing life back into myself. Yeah, I might be just one tiny speck in the grand scheme of things, but damn it, I’m a speck that’s going to leave a mark. I’ve been handed a life most people would kill for, and I’m not going to take anything for granted.
Not my daughter, nor my work.
“Building a hotel on that land is out of the question now. What do you think about Elixir Estates investing in a cozy, rustic yet elegant and luxurious wedding estate?”
His brow arches, and I know I can’t expect such a mild response from my shareholders. They’ll probably lose their collective minds at the news. This proposal is miles away from our brand.
“Didn’t you once say that rustic was just a sophisticated word for cheap and tacky?” He’s wearing that shit-eating grin like he’s been waiting for this moment for years.
I groan internally. Leave it to my cousin to never forget a single word I’ve ever said.
“I might have been a little shortsighted,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck and reminding myself of the lines I rehearsed on the drive.
“But I’m thinking this could be our first step in expanding Elixir Estates’ portfolio. We’d be breaking into a new market. Based on the latest trends, cozy bohemian wedding estates that offer luxury are hot right now. Many celebrities are choosing them over sleek, impersonal hotels. We won’t be changing who we cater to, we are just giving them more options.”
Rowan’s lips curl into a slow smile, and I feel a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I’m not completely off my rocker with this idea.
“You came to practice this pitch on me, didn’t you?”
Yeah, he has me there. I shoot him a look, half amused, half guilty. “Maybe I did,” I confess, leaning against the porch railing. “But I need more than practice. I need to get the ball rolling. I don’t want the shareholders blindsided. I want to seed some rumors in the media, get the narrative in our favor before they even step foot in the boardroom.”
He nods, his mind clearly already working on the next step. “Give me ’til midday tomorrow. I’ll draft a plan.”
Rowan is the head of Elixir Communications. To many, it’s confusing. How can someone who struggles with speech have this profession? But if you look deeper, it makes perfect sense. It’s about saying the right thing, and he’s a master of the written word.
“Is it cool if I run a few ideas by Archer? He’s coming over for breakfast tomorrow.”
I nod. As much as Archer’s more…fiery, there’s no separating the two. That stuff they say about twin bonding—my cousins are living proof of it. Even though they look nothing alike, the same heart beats in their chests.
“Great. I’ll talk to you when you’re ready.” I’m about to turn around when Ray claps a hand onto my shoulder.
“You’re making the right call, Ray. And when the shareholders walk out of that room, we’ll make sure they’re convinced this was the direction they always wanted.”
I hope to hell he’s right.