10. A Guest, a Copycat, and a Sunbeam?
A GUEST, A COPYCAT, AND A SUNBEAM?
RAYMOND
“H ey, Quillbug, what do you say we set out your favorite cookies for the new nanny?” I suggest, glancing over at my daughter, who’s currently doing her best impression of a couch cushion, melting into the upholstery like she’s trying to disappear entirely. If she slouches any lower, she’ll practically be part of the furniture.
This morning, I broke the news that a new nanny’s starting today. Her shrug in return was so lackluster I’m surprised it didn’t come with a yawn. Not that I blame her.
Every nanny so far has been more interested in me than actually doing the job of watching my kid. I can’t count how many have walked out of here before they even learned Quill’s favorite snack.
My assistant, Donna, and I have had the same conversation so many times I could recite it in my sleep. I beg her to find someone who actually cares about Quill. Just Quill. Someone who’s uninterested in me beyond their paycheck. Donna always hits me with her usual snark: “Married women over fifty aren’t exactly lining up to live here full-time. And no amount of praise will persuade my friends to do it.”
For a while, I started to think this ideal nanny was a fairy tale. But then along came Willow Pershing. And damn if she doesn’t set the bar and then flip it over her head for good measure.
I mean, I was hoping for someone who’d care about Quill more than me, but Willow? She can barely tolerate me, and yet she adores my daughter with a passion I didn’t think possible. I’m determined to figure out what it is about her that’s captivated Quill so one day I can hire someone just like her—without worrying they might kill me in my sleep.
“Maybe we could grab a couple of your storybooks to show her?” I try one more time, but Quill shakes her head, signaling that she’s not interested.
Yet, I have a sneaking suspicion that once she realizes it’s Willow we’re talking about, her attitude will do a complete one-eighty. We’ll probably look like opposites of our current mood—me brooding in one corner, and Quill beaming in the other.
I glance at my watch. Six thirty.
Before I can form a mental comment about Willow being late, my phone buzzes. A notification pops up—a car has passed through the main gate. I open the live feed, and there it is, a pastel green pickup truck with “Whispering Willow” stamped on the side.
And then she steps out. I swear, for a split second, she looks like she’s posing for some men’s special ethereal calendar. Her hair’s pulled into her signature messy bun, the kind that says, I rolled out of bed looking this good . Tattoos snake down her arms, fully visible thanks to her off-white spaghetti-strap dress with sunflowers. I’m not sure if she’s wearing it because she knows Quill loves sunflowers or if it’s a coincidence.
She crouches down, setting up her dog’s bag, and I catch her talking to him like he’s a person. And just like that, my pulse kicks up. And so does my cock. Fantastic . A reaction I’ve never had to anyone on my payroll and a perfect reminder to stay on my toes around Willow.
A member of my security team moves in to park her truck and offer help with her bags, but Willow waves them off with a casual flick of her hand. Then, with one smooth motion, she slings a duffel bag over her shoulder like it weighs nothing, looking more like a carefree backpacker wandering Europe than a nanny showing up for a job.
With one last confident stride, she disappears from the camera’s view, leaving me standing here still staring at my phone with my heart racing for all the wrong reasons. I can’t help but think, what the hell have I gotten myself into?
A few minutes later, the door opens, and Willow struts in, led by a member of the staff. I’m still recovering from whatever the hell it is about her that’s making my pulse pound, when she spots Quill and flashes the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. It’s nothing like the forced grin she gives my way—the one that feels like it’s seconds from turning into an eye roll or a sarcastic jab. “Hey, Quill!”
I’m making a mental note about Willow’s odd insistence on carrying her dog everywhere in a bag, but that thought vanishes the second she sets down the little puffball of a canine. It immediately zeroes in on Quill.
Instinct kicks in, and I’m ready to step in, my protective-dad-mode activated, but Quill’s reaction stops me cold. Her whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth stretching into a grin I’ve rarely seen, hands clapping with pure, unfiltered excitement.
The dog, clearly thrilled by the attention, trots over and sits in front of her, poised like a tiny guardian. Quill doesn’t hesitate. She drops to her knees and pets the dog like they’ve been best friends forever. The foyer falls silent except for the dog’s excited panting, and for a second, I swear Quill’s about to say something. She’s engaged, animated in a way I’ve been hoping for.
But then, she lifts a single finger, telling the dog to wait, like a tiny CEO giving orders, and the dog tilts its head as if it understands. The moment shatters into pieces when Quill races back inside the house, leaving me, Willow, Grandpa Will, and Captain Lick in an awkward standoff.
I exhale. This interaction, as simple as it was, hits me like a freight train, a reminder of why I’m doing all of this. It’s for Quill. No matter what my brain—or, apparently, my body—thinks about Willow, I can’t afford to mess this up. Not when my daughter’s happiness finally feels within reach.
“Welcome, Miss Pershing, and who’s this fine gentleman?” Grandpa Will slides in with a warm smile, giving a nod to the little furball at our feet.
“That’s Captain Lick.” Willow laughs, a soft, lilting sound that fills the space, adding a bit of chaos to my controlled, orderly home—like splashing color onto a black-and-white screen. “You can call him Cap, or Captain, if that feels less weird.” Her gaze flicks to me briefly, silently calling me out for not being as welcoming as the old man.
Alright, maybe I’m coming off as a bit of an ass. But it’s intentional—I need to keep the boundary clear from the beginning. I’m only being polite because of my daughter. I’m not here for whatever sunshine vibe Willow’s bringing into my house. It’s risky and way too distracting.
“We’ll take care of your bags,” Grandpa Will says, gesturing to the staff member. Willow, for once, doesn’t argue, which feels like a small miracle. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” he continues, smoothly saying all the things I probably should’ve said but didn’t.
But the thing is, I feel off-balance, completely out of my depth.
This whole situation is a far cry from the usual routine when a new nanny walks through these doors. My daughter’s never been this animated, and I’ve never felt this…rattled.
Just then, Quill reappears, proudly balancing a plate of cookies that’s nearly as big as she is. She must’ve had help from the kitchen staff. Carefully, she places the plate onto the glass coffee table, her little feet barely making a sound.
“Can I give one to Captain Lick?” Quill signs, her wide eyes filled with an innocent determination, as if feeding this dog is the most important task in the world.
“Oh, one whole cookie’s way too big for him. He’s just a little guy.” Willow grins, treating this like it’s the highlight of her day. “But you could break off a bite for him. These look so good. Do you think I could have one too?”
Quill beams, flashing a big toothy grin in a way that tells me she doesn’t even care that Willow sweetly redirected her. Nope, my daughter is already firmly Team Willow, plopping down beside her on the couch like they’re lifelong friends.
And me? I’m across from them, feeling like an outsider in my own living room. The glass coffee table between us has somehow become more than just a piece of furniture—it’s a wall separating me from them.
“Is he a therapy dog?” I ask, watching as Quill breaks off tiny pieces of cookie and offers them to Captain Lick. The little guy waits patiently. What dog has this level of self-control?
Willow gives me a look like I’ve just asked if she moonlights as a circus clown. “No, he’s a family dog.”
Quill’s hands fly up, signing with enthusiasm. “He’s the most awesome dog, Dad! Isn’t he?”
Her eyes are so bright, you’d think this little furball just descended from the heavens to save us all.
I nod, keeping my tone neutral. “He’s…something.” Awesome? A potential disaster? The jury’s still out.
I glance back at Willow and catch her staring at me, her gaze narrowed, scrutinizing, like she’s assessing whether I might be the one in need of therapy. We’re locked in this silent staring match, and for a split second, I’m convinced she’s about to call me out with just that look.
But then Grandpa Will strides in with impeccable timing, breaking the tension. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour.” He throws me a pointed, She’s here to help. Quit acting like a grump look before disappearing.
I inhale deeply, trying to pull in some sense of reason along with air.
This is for Quill, I once again remind myself.
“I’ve got a few calls to make. You good here, Bug?”
I’d planned to give them some alone time, see if Willow could work her weird magic and get Quill to speak again. But now that I’m about to step away, I can’t help but feel…off. Leaving them alone suddenly feels like more than letting a new nanny settle in. It’s because Willow already feels like more than a nanny, Teager.
It seems she’s not just filling a role but somehow rewriting the whole script. I should be running the show, but instead, I’m the one trying to keep up.
Maybe I’m overly suspicious, but this woman is messing with my equilibrium, and I don’t like it.
Quill claps her hands and looks at me with those big excited eyes. “Dad, can I show Willow and Captain Lick my room?”
I nod, but it’s weak. My feet are carrying dead weight as I leave the room, dragging myself away.
What is it about this woman? How did she manage to worm her way into all the important parts of my life—my business, my daughter? And she isn’t just present in them; she’s claiming them as her own.
Okay, I’m being paranoid.
As I make my way down the hallway, their footsteps echo, following me. When we first moved in, I set up my office and bedroom right next to Quill’s, wanting to be close by. The rest of the rooms, including the guest bedrooms, are all in the other wing, which I’m suddenly grateful for.
Distance is necessary when it comes to Willow.
I leave my office door cracked open just enough to hear Willow’s voice and the excited woofs from Captain Lick. “This is such a cool room, Quill! Girl, you weren’t kidding about liking sunflowers.” She must have spotted my daughter’s wallpaper. “And your books! You’re definitely a little surprise packet.”
I can almost picture Quill beaming as she shows off her shelves, probably pointing out all the illustrations in her favorite books.
Willow continues. “Sure, I can read to you, but fair warning—I might suck at it since I’ve never done this before.”
A crack forms right in the center of my chest. My daughter, who’s never once asked anyone else to read to her—not Grandpa Will, not any of her nannies, not even my cousins—is now inviting Willow, a near stranger, into something I thought was our thing.
I came in here to make work calls, but suddenly all I can focus on is Willow’s voice. She’s reading with way too much dramatic flair, almost like she’s auditioning for an off-Broadway play. Unlike when I read to Quill, where she listens quietly, soaking up every word, tonight I can feel her engagement. I don’t even have to see it—it’s a dad thing. I just know.
Willow’s reading the same lines I’ve repeated to Quill countless times, but somehow they sound…different coming from her. Livelier. Like the words are dancing off the page, coming to life in a way I didn’t know they could.
Before I know it, time has slipped away. Grandpa Will appears at my office door, a knowing look on his face. “Dinner’s ready.” He steps inside. “How are we feeling about the new member of the household?”
“She’s not a new member. She’s a temporary employee,” I reply, maybe a little too quickly.
The old man shrugs, completely unbothered by my denial. “You can say whatever you want, but I’ve never seen Quill this happy with anyone else. Not even with you or me.”
Well, that felt like a direct hit.
“Then she’s a damn good employee,” I bite out, trying to keep my voice steady, even as something inside me twists at his words.
He chuckles, the kind of laugh that’s full of experience and a little bit of I know you better than you think . “You sometimes still act like that six-year-old boy I first met.” Before I can ask him to take those words back, he adds, “Let’s invite our new guest.”
Guest. Yeah, that sounds better.
A good reminder that Willow is temporary—no matter how comfortable she’s already starting to get around here.
The house staff has barely finished setting the dinner table when Quill once again attaches herself to Willow’s side, like she’s been part of the family for years. Captain Lick is camped out at my daughter’s feet, devouring his food like it’s his last meal. At the rate he’s going, he’ll finish before the rest of us even pick up our forks.
Willow glances up at me, and for the first time since she arrived, there’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I can have Captain Lick eat in another room.”
I shrug, doing my best impression of someone who’s totally fine with everything . “It’s no big deal. Quill likes having him here.” My answer earns me the brightest smile from my daughter, and despite the strange tension building inside me, that smile still manages to warm something in my chest.
But as I’m about to stand up, I catch Willow casually cutting Quill’s meat into little bite-sized pieces. My fists clench under the table. Another thing she’s swooped in and claimed—without asking.
Quill, of course, beams at her new nanny like she’s the second coming of Mary Poppins, while I sit across from them, chewing through my food as though it’s roadkill and not something prepared by a former Michelin-star chef.
The table falls into a quiet lull, but inside, I’m battling a storm of annoyance, frustration—hell, maybe even jealousy. I feel all of it at once.
As if sensing my rising tension, Grandpa Will clears his throat. “I hope your room is comfortable, Miss Pershing. If you need anything at all, just let me or the staff know.”
Willow nods, still chewing, then swallows before responding. “Thank you so much. Everything’s great and it’s so thoughtful of you to get a new bed for Captain Lick, but you didn’t have to go through all the trouble. I’ve got all his stuff with me.”
“No trouble at all. We want our furry guest to feel just as welcome.”
“That’s really sweet of you.” She beams at Grandpa Will. “And please, call me Willow. I insist.”
As dinner winds down, I turn to her, my voice cool and direct. “After dinner, I’d like to have a word with you.”
Willow nods, her expression unreadable; still, I can’t stop myself from staring. I don’t think I’ve ever been this restless in my own damn house.
“I’ll take Quill to her room and then come find you?” she offers.
The words are barely out of her mouth and I yank the napkin from my lap and drop it beside my plate. If that napkin were glass instead of cloth, it would’ve shattered into pieces. “Why don’t you let me handle my daughter’s bedtime routine?”
Her smile wavers, and instantly, there’s this uncomfortable twist in my chest. I’m familiar with Willow’s emotions—her sass, her bite, her disappointment. In all our time together one thing has become painfully clear. I can handle her anger, but her sadness is a whole different mess.
“I mean, you probably need to take your dog out or something,” I add, scrambling to soften the blow.
Her brows knit together. She seems confused by my sudden backpedal, but then nods slowly.
Before I can dig myself deeper, Quill taps the table with her small hand. “I’m done, Daddy.”
I’m out of my chair in a flash. “Great. Let’s get you ready for bed, Bug.”
Her new, bright yellow pajamas are already laid out neatly on the bed, catching the soft glow from the bedside lamp.
“Did you pick out your clothes before dinner?” I ask, surprised and proud all at once. Every day, my daughter finds new ways to impress me. It feels like she’s growing up too fast, becoming more independent with each passing day.
She smiles and shakes her head. “No, it was Willow.”
My fist clenches instinctively at my side. “You don’t have to wear something just because Willow suggested it, you know.”
“I like them too, Dad.”
Of course she does. My daughter—sweet as she is—would never want to hurt someone’s feelings, especially someone who’s managed to fit herself into her tiny heart so quickly.
I can already see it. Quill is going to grow into the kind of woman who puts everyone else before herself. It’s both adorable and terrifying.
She tugs on my pant leg before nodding toward the nightwear on her bed. “So can I wear these, or should I find something else?”
“Alright, if you like them.” I hand her the pajamas. “Go ahead and knock if you need help.”
She scampers off to the bathroom, her tiny feet pattering against the floor.
As I wait, my eyes fall on the book Willow had been reading earlier. It’s sitting on top of the stack. Of course, she hadn’t just read it—she’d brought the whole damn thing to life with a different voice for each character. If Willow Pershing ever loses her inn business, she’s got a solid backup career as a storyteller at the nearest children’s bookstore. The thought of telling her that makes me smirk. She’d probably chop my head off without a second’s hesitation.
The truth is, I know more about Willow than I’d care to admit. My team runs background checks on every business associate, but with Willow, it wasn’t just business. It was personal.
All because of Quill, of course. Nothing else.
And as much as I hate to admit it, Willow was right about one thing: she’s built something special at Whispering Willow. They’ve found their niche in the cutthroat B&B market, hosting weddings and events with glowing reviews pouring in. People rave about the place like it’s magic. Willow and her mom are definitely the kind of people who go above and beyond for their business. That kind of dedication can’t be taught.
Maybe, just maybe, that’s why I feel so conflicted about her. She’s more than I expected in every way.
Quill bursts out of the bathroom, a grin lighting up her face as she twirls in her brand-new yellow pajamas, practically glowing against her skin. She looks like a walking sunbeam.
Damn it, Willow. How am I supposed to stay annoyed when my daughter is radiating pure joy?
“You and Daisy had quite the shopping trip this time.” I cross my arms, unable to hide my smile.
Quill nods enthusiastically. “I know! Maybe next time we can take Willow and Captain Lick with us.”
My lips curl down as I suppress a groan. Great. I don’t know if she’s more smitten with the dog or its owner, and I’m not ready to unpack that can of worms.
She hands me her scrunchie and turns around, signaling for me to unbraid her pigtails. It’s our nightly ritual. As I start to work through the strands, a knot forms in my stomach. Will this become yet another thing Willow takes over? The thought sits like a pebble in my shoe—small but irritating.
Quill twists around, her forehead creased, snapping me out of my thoughts.
Damn it.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” I say, wincing. “Did I pull too hard?” I place my hands behind my back.
She gives me that look—the one that says, What’s going on with you, Dad?
“I promise I’ll be more careful.” I resume untangling her hair, this time with the concentration of a bomb defuser. No more wandering thoughts about a certain nanny-slash-business rival.
Once her hair is free and brushed, I tuck her under the covers and plant a kiss on her forehead. “Good night, Bug.”
As I turn to leave, she grabs my hand. “Wait! No bedtime story tonight?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought Willow already read to you.”
She grins. “That was different.”
“Different how?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “You don’t like Willow’s reading?”
Yep, I’ve stooped to fishing for compliments from a six-year-old. New low, Teager.
Quill giggles. “I like both.”
Of course she does. My kid’s got a heart of gold.
“Alright then.” I nod toward the stack of books on her nightstand. “Which one tonight?”
Not to my surprise, she points to the one with the red spine on top.
At least we have one thing in common—we share an obsession for the things we like.
I settle beside her and begin to read, putting extra effort into the character voices. A few pages in, I notice the bed shaking. Quill’s eyes are squeezed shut, a wide grin stretching across her face.
I pause. “What’s so funny?”
She peeks one eye open. “Are you trying to read like Willow?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I am not.”
“Are too!” Her hands move so fast as she conveys the words, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Take that back, Bug!” I feign offense, but like a kid who’s been caught red-handed, I lean back against her headboard, hiding my face behind the book.
A second later, the book is gently pulled away from my face. Quill kneels beside me, her wise green eyes searching mine with a patience no six-year-old should have. “What’s the matter, Daddy?” she signs softly.
I feel a flush creep up my neck. Great, now I’m getting called out by my own kid. I glance away, suddenly fascinated by the pattern on her bedsheets. “I thought you liked the way Willow reads.”
Quill’s face lights up with a smile—the kind that could outshine the sun and melt even the iciest hearts. I’d do anything to keep that smile alive, even if it means channeling my inner storyteller or, apparently, impersonating a certain captivating someone who has upturned my life in a matter of hours.
“I liked Willow’s reading. But before sleeping, I want my dad’s voice.”
And just like that, she pieces together every fractured part of me with a single sentence. How does this tiny human manage to be so damn insightful?
“You’re too good for your own good, Bug.” I ruffle her hair affectionately. “At this rate, I’m going to need an entire security convoy when you’re older to keep the world from stealing you away.”
She tilts her head, a puzzled look crossing her face. “Dad, you’re being weird.”
I chuckle. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone told me that. Now, under the covers you go.” I tuck the blanket around her snugly.
“Night, Daddy.” She snuggles into her pillow.
“Good night, Bug.” I lean in to kiss her forehead, lingering for a moment, soaking in this perfect slice of life. “Sweet dreams.”
As I stand to leave, she signs, “Daddy, you can like Willow too. She doesn’t mind.”
“Shh!” I hold her tiny hands, closing them in between mine, because she’s got it all wrong here.
I can’t like Willow Pershing, for way too many fucking reasons I can’t even count on my two hands.
And if somehow I hurt my head, suffer brain injury, and forget all those reasons and fall for her anyway…she’d definitely mind.