13. French BraidsRuined oranges?
FRENCH brAIDS OR RUINED ORANGES?
RAYMOND
W illow steps back, leaving the faint hint of citrus from her shampoo hanging in the air, and my brain takes it as a green light to replay last night: her standing in the doorway, wrapped in nothing but a towel, that same scent swirling around the room.
But before I can sink too deeply into that memory, Quill tugs on my pants, snapping me back to reality. My gaze shifts away from Miss Pershing—the woman who used to be my constant headache, but in less than twenty-four hours has somehow morphed into a walking distraction. To make things worse, my thoughts haven’t received the memo about professional boundaries and labor laws.
I look down to find my daughter gazing up at me, her wild blonde hair in a tangled mess that seems to defy gravity, with strands sticking out in every direction like a chaotic little halo. She holds up a green hair tie that matches her dress perfectly.
“I’ll be right back.” The words leave my mouth before I dart out of the room. How does a responsible dad behave when his brain is spiraling into lust but he’s got a kid around who absolutely doesn’t need to catch wind of it? Seriously, where’s the manual for that?
I end up pacing through the house with no real destination, just trying to recalibrate. Moments ago, I was leaving Quill’s room to grab my iPad, and now here I am, emotionally winded from a casual run-in with Willow.
I take a deep breath.
My little fashionista has requested a French braid today, and while I’m proud to say I’ve gotten pretty good at this dad duty, it doesn’t hurt to have a little extra guidance. Thankfully, the single-mom YouTuber I follow breaks it down step-by-step, with instructions practically tailor-made for dads like me, navigating the hair-braiding world one pigtail at a time.
When I walk back into Quill’s room, she’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, looking like the queen of all things cute, while Willow stands nearby, looking a little…out of place.
“Thank God it’s Saturday,” Willow mutters mostly to herself, though Quill nods in solidarity, as if fully tuned into Willow’s monologue. “But starting tomorrow, I’m definitely setting an alarm.” Willow rubs her hands down the sides of her red pajamas. “I should probably figure out what you usually do on weekends.”
Watching her unsure, her words from before echo in my mind, the ones about not knowing what she’s doing but giving it her all. It reminds me that I still have to send the email I drafted last night, outlining Quill’s routine.
I step farther into the room, and both of them turn to look at me.
“I got the video.” I hand the tablet to Quill, who spins around on her bed without missing a beat so I can get behind her. “I can handle the braiding part, but I still like to have instructions,” I tell Willow, keeping my eyes focused on the task ahead. I don’t trust myself to look at her right now—not with my head still pirouetting and my chest feeling like it’s on fire. “But if you’d like, you could take over this task.”
I breathe deeply through my nose, steadying the wave of dad guilt rising up, as if I’m somehow shying from my responsibilities. But instead of drowning in it, I call on the logical part of my brain. This isn’t about me—it’s for Quill.
Keeping her to myself like an overprotective kangaroo has only made her more reliant on me. If I want her to open up to others, I have to loosen the reins. And Willow…well, Quill chose her. Last night erased any lingering doubts I had.
Quill turns, beaming, completely forgetting about the video. “Will you do my braid today, Willow?” She’s practically vibrating with excitement, holding up the green hair tie like a little trophy.
But when her hand hovers in the air a bit too long, I glance at my new nanny, expecting her usual burst of enthusiasm. Instead, she looks like someone just asked her to perform open-heart surgery. Her face has gone pale, and she steps back.
“You want me to French braid your hair?” Her eyes are wide as she clutches the hem of her soft, thin pajama shirt, gripping it like a lifeline.
Her gaze shifts to mine, narrowing as if I’ve set her up for this moment. “If I knew how to French braid, do you think my hair would always be in this stupid bun?” She grabs the messy knot atop her head and gives it a little shake.
That small, frustrated gesture hits me straight in the gut. My fingers itch to reach out, to feel that fiery red hair—the same strands that brushed against me earlier when she crashed into me.
Damn. In less than twenty-four hours, this woman has me acting like a total creep.
That messy bun, her complete lack of effort—and yet somehow, she’s still the most stunning woman. My brain keeps looping that thought over and over. While I’m still gazing at her like a starstruck idiot, Quill hops off the bed with way too much energy for a Saturday morning.
“Don’t worry, Willow. My dad can teach you! He’s really good now. My braid doesn’t even come loose after gym class anymore. Right, Dad?”
I stifle a groan, forcing a bright smile. “I’m sure Willow doesn’t want to learn how to braid hair first thing on a weekend, Bug.”
But Quill isn’t buying it. “What if Willow wants to braid her own hair someday?”
I glance at Willow, hoping for a lifeline, but her moment of nervousness has vanished. She’s back to being the Miss Pershing I know, grinning and clearly biting back a laugh, thoroughly enjoying watching me get cornered by my own daughter. “I’d love to be able to braid my hair.”
Fucking Fantastic.
“Let’s go, Dad.” Quill pats my knee like I’m the kid here, flipping the script completely.
I love doing the little things for my daughter. Braiding her hair, painting her nails with her favorite color of the week, online shopping for dresses—all things I never imagined myself doing in my wildest dreams.
But having Willow witness this side of me…is…unnerving.
It feels like a part of me I’ve always kept private is suddenly exposed, and once again, I realize she’ll never be like any other nanny we’ve had. There’s an unspoken history between us, laced with tension—half admiration, half irritation—and I’m starting to wonder which one of those feelings will win out and explode.
“Do you mind if I watch?” Willow’s voice pulls me back to the present, her question laden with curiosity.
In any other universe, I’d have a quick, flirtatious response lined up. Something smooth like, “I don’t mind you watching at all.” Maybe with one of my signature smirks to make my point. But instead, I duck my head, keeping it together. “That’s fine by me.”
I focus on Quill’s head, trying to ignore the fact that Willow is seated across the room in the cushioned armchair, leaning forward, studying my every move.
The YouTuber guides me through each step as I part my daughter’s hair. After six months, I’ve learned that hair braiding, like cooking, isn’t something you can wing. If you try to do so, well, the results aren’t exactly desirable. I finish untangling the last strand and start sectioning the hair.
“Aren’t you going to explain what you’re doing?” Willow asks, genuinely curious.
I glance up, eyebrows raised. “I said you could watch. I didn’t say I was teaching.”
Her lips twitch, eyes crinkling with amusement. “How will I learn if you don’t explain it?”
“You watch the tutorial,” I deadpan, hoping that’ll end it.
But of course not.
Willow drags her chair closer, and now she’s right beside me, turning this into a three-person hair-braiding party.
Quill, clearly loving every second, beams up at her. “I’ll start the video from the beginning!”
Great. I close my eyes, trying to focus, but the faint scent of Willow’s shampoo wafts over. My mind instantly conjures a color—tangerine. A fiery citrus scent that seeps into my thoughts like honey. I picture her rinsing her hair, soap suds cascading down her back…
I snap my eyes open, trying to shake off the completely inappropriate thought. Before I can fully recover, Quill taps my leg.
“Dad, you’re behind.”
“Oh, so he’s usually not zoning out every few seconds? I thought maybe since he’s old , he might need more time.” Willow’s face flushes as she tries to hold back her laughter. Her eyes don’t meet mine as she focuses solely on Quill, who laughs, her shoulders shaking hard.
“Dad, Willow called you old.” Quill grins up at me.
“I heard.” I shoot Willow a mock stink eye when she finally looks at me, but it only makes her smile wider.
Despite my best effort, I fumble, a lot. What should have been a five-minute job is dragging out, mistake after mistake piling up.
As I’m finally finishing the braid and securing the last strand, the elastic snaps. Of course it does. Before I can get up to grab another one, Willow jumps out of her chair. “I’ve got this. What do you need?”
I must look like a complete disaster—broken hair tie hanging from my mouth, hands tangled in my daughter’s hair. But Willow’s face is serious and her expression right now is genuinely sincere.
“Top drawer.” I nod toward the dresser. “Green hair tie, please.”
Without missing a beat, she heads for the drawer.
Once I’ve secured the braid, I swing it over Quill’s shoulder, waiting for her verdict.
She flashes me a toothy grin and nods. “Thanks, Dad.”
Finally, the hair-braiding marathon is over and I’m about to make my quick exit when Quill turns to Willow, her eyes sparkling. “Your turn now.”
“What?” Willow and I both blurt out at the exact same time.
“Quill,” I say in my serious dad voice, the one reserved for those rare occasions when I actually have to deny her something. But my daughter looks up at me with that determined little face of hers, the one that says she’s not backing down.
“Dad, Willow just said she doesn’t like her hair. And if she knew how to braid it, she would. She needs your help. Didn’t you say we should always help someone who asks for it?”
This is the part they don’t warn you about in parenting books—how your own well-meaning advice can boomerang right back at you in the most unexpected ways.
“I’m sure Willow has better things to do with her Saturday morning than get her hair braided,” I say, hoping my tone conveys that not everyone views French braids as the highlight of their weekend.
But Quill’s not budging. She turns to Willow and tugs on her hand. I expect my fiery-haired houseguest to politely decline. Instead, she surprises me by plopping down right in front of me, glancing back over her shoulder with a hesitant smile.
“I’ve never had braids before.” Her voice is softer than I expected. “My mom always kept her hair short, and mine as well, until I was old enough to handle it myself.”
There’s a flicker of something in her eyes—something vulnerable. Like maybe she missed out on more than just braids.
“You sure?” My hand hovers over the clip securing her bun, my heart pounding in a way it never has before.
It’s just her hair, Ray. Just hair. Totally innocent. I repeat the words in my head, but the moment Willow nods and I release the clip, her red waves tumble between us like a curtain of molten fire, warm and shiny in the light.
The scent of oranges is so intense I have to shut my eyes and take a steadying breath. Great. Now I’m officially ruined for oranges.
“Wow, soft,” Quill echoes my thought as she hands me the comb like a perfect little assistant, smiling as if this is our usual Saturday routine.
Meanwhile, Willow rewinds the video. I try to focus, but my heart is racing so fast it feels like I’m running a marathon in a kiddie salon. Maybe I should book an appointment with Grandpa Will’s cardiologist, because something’s definitely off with my heart today.
It’s been off since the second Willow Pershing strolled into my house.
Her hair is silk between my fingers. I swear I’m not dragging this out on purpose, but I can’t seem to get my braiding game right today. I part her hair into sections, moving slower than usual, trying not to lose it.
“Willow, would you like a matching hair tie like mine?” Quill holds up the green one she picked out, and though I can’t see Willow’s face, I can hear the smile in her voice when she speaks.
“Absolutely. I love playing samesies with you, Quill.” She flutters her fingers like a little bird, and I notice again how her nail polish matches my daughter’s from their spa day.
Watching them together is a sweet kind of torture. Every day since Quill came into my life, I’ve done everything I can to make sure she never feels like she’s missing a parent. Now, in just a few hours with Willow here, I’m realizing there are so many things I’m falling short on.
As soon as I take the tie from Quill’s hand and secure Willow’s braid, Quill claps her hands.
“Done! Now, I’m hungry.” She signs so fast and bolts from the room like a rocket, leaving Willow and me alone.
“I’m impressed.” Willow turns slightly to get a better look at her braid. “I never imagined Raymond Teager would be a braid master.”
“Yeah, well, some things are better kept secret.” I pin her with a serious look.
“Your secret’s safe with me, boss.” She grins and gives me a mock salute before returning to inspect her braid in the vanity mirror.
I grab a small mirror from the dresser and stand behind her so she can get a better look. Our eyes meet in the reflection, and her expression softens in surprise.
“You’re really good at this,” she says, her voice filled with a kind of honesty that makes my chest tighten.
I find myself smiling. “Thanks. I’ll take any compliment from you, even if it’s about my hairstyling skills.”
Willow giggles, a sound that I instantly want to hear on repeat. I’ve realized something in the short time she’s been here, I like Willow when she’s happy. It’s a hell of a lot better than when she’s disappointed or distant.
“Breakfast should be ready. I’m shocked Quill didn’t drag you with her,” I say, heading for the door.
“Raymond?”
Like last night in the pergola, my name from her lips stops me in my tracks and I turn. “Yes, Willow?”
There’s something different about her smile now—it’s softer, more open. “I meant you’re really good at the dad stuff.”
The air between us shifts. The playful banter fades, replaced by something heavier, more meaningful. When someone praises you for the one thing you’re always second-guessing, it hits different. And coming from Willow, a woman who’s turned my world upside down, it hits deep.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “I’m trying my best.”