14. Eyes on Firefly
EYES ON FIREFLY
WILLOW
“W ow. Who died?” Nana bursts into my room as I’m halfway through another attempt to breathe through the pre-presentation anxiety gnawing at me. Today’s the day I’ll be standing before Elixir Estates’ shareholders and telling them why they should invest in my wedding estate.
“Could you knock, just once?” I don’t even bother turning around.
“There’s nothing I haven’t seen, Lolo. I was on diaper duty twenty-four seven when you were a baby.”
“Nana, all grandparents do that. They just don’t bring up the pee tally every time they see their grandkids.”
“Then you clearly haven’t met Mrs. Birch. Do you know that old bat sends her grandson home in dirty diapers?”
What just happened? I was seconds away from a full-blown panic attack about the biggest presentation of my life, and now I’m stuck listening to diaper horror stories.
There’s a soft knock on the door, but before I can answer, Nana hollers, “Come on in, Steph! Lolo’s decent. Not like she popped out of you wearing a designer onesie, anyway.”
I slam my brush down onto the dresser, not out of irritation but sheer awe at how Nana can take over any place she walks into as if she’s the queen of the universe. This is my room, my apartment, yet she’s the one making me feel like the guest. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind borrowing that confidence, just for today—especially since I barely recognize myself.
“You look beautiful, Lolo.” Mom’s soft voice cuts through my thoughts as she steps into the room.
I don’t meet her gaze. I can’t. Not when I’m trying to build a fortress of confidence around myself before facing a room full of corporate suits. I can’t afford to second-guess myself right now.
“Yeah, if she’s going for afternoon tea with the Queen of England,” Nana chimes in.
“White suits you, honey. You almost look like a bride,” Mom adds, ignoring Nana’s commentary.
I swipe another layer of concealer over the vines of my tattoos. “Mom, I’m going to a business meeting. Please don’t talk about bridal dresses, I might actually puke.”
There’s a pause, and even without looking at them, I know Nana and Mom are exchanging one of those silent looks, like they’re having an entire conversation telepathically. I used to think it was a mother-daughter thing, but I was never able to do that with Mom, no matter how hard I tried as a kid.
“How are you really doing, Willow?” Mom asks softly, handing me the pearl earrings I borrowed from her last year and forgot to return. “Now that you’re not at the inn as much, I feel like I don’t know what’s going on in your life anymore.”
I focus on the white gems, letting their shine distract me from the weight of her question. “I’m still there on weekends—when we have the most guests. Everything’s fine.”
After our braiding session, Raymond sent me an email outlining all the little details of Quill’s life. The past few days have gone smoother than I expected, and my confidence in my nannying skills has grown with each bit of progress. The truth is, he doesn’t need me for the usual stuff—he has an entire staff for that, and let’s not forget how hands-on he is with his daughter. What he truly wants is for Quill to open up more to life and to people.
Once this presentation goes as planned, I’ve got a whole list of things I want to do with her. I’m going to do my absolute best to help her feel comfortable, hopefully make new friends, and enjoy life. Cherrywood really is one of the best places for that.
“I’m not worried about the inn, Lolo. I’m worried about you.” Mom’s words snap me back to the present.
“There’s nothing to worry about.” I brush her off. “I’m focused on getting Gramps’s land back.”
“And you need to change who you are to do that?” Nana cuts in, eyebrow raised as she points at my arms, now covered by the sleeves of my chiffon dress. All the ink I usually show off is hidden behind concealer.
“Is this coming from the woman who lost her mind when I got my first tattoo?”
“Of course I did! You did something cool before I had a chance to experience it. But now we’re even.” She proudly points to the tiny, barely there black dot on her arm—her “tattoo,” if you can even call it that.
I can’t hold back a grin, remembering how she begged me to take her to the parlor. But the second that needle touched her skin, she howled like she was auditioning for the role of a banshee—and she’d have bagged it, too, because that woman can wail. Now, she struts around like she’s all tatted out, conveniently forgetting she nearly scared the artist half to death.
“It’s a business presentation, Nana.” I sigh, standing to strap on my heels. “There’s a certain…dress code.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel like I’ve betrayed myself. People shouldn’t have to change who they are just to fit in, right?
But before I can spiral, Nana interrupts my thoughts. “Hmm, I only see one good thing about all this. Maybe some handsome businessman will fall head over heels for you in that white dress, and bam! He’s proposing before you even get a chance to say a single word.”
“Seriously? What are you smoking these days?”
Nana cackles. “I’m not smoking anything! It’s the TV. The best love stories happen when you least expect it.”
Mom shrugs, smiling softly. “Sometimes, she’s right. You never know when the man of your dreams might come knocking.”
“Well, good thing I sleep like a rock. No dreams, no love stories,” I quip, grabbing my bag and giving them each a quick kiss on the cheek before making my escape.
I love them, but I’ve got enough on my plate without adding love stories and Prince Charming to the mix. I need to focus. This meeting is everything, and I can’t afford to let my nerves or their romantic fantasies throw me off my game.
* * *
My heart pounds like a drum, and my palms are clammy as I pull into the parking lot of Elixir Estates. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves twisting my stomach into knots.
You’ve got this, Wills. You’re more than ready.
And I really am. I’ve worked with Raymond’s PR team to polish this presentation so thoroughly that it barely resembles the one I showed him at La Bella Vita. Today isn’t about sentiment or nostalgia for Gramps’s land. Today, I’m all business, channeling my inner Raymond Teager—ice cold, no emotions.
My fingers absently touch the willow tattoo over my heart, and I almost jump when my phone pings.
Not-so-much-of-a-jackass-anymore Raymond Teager: I hope you’re not sitting in your car plotting revenge for all the times I made your life difficult. Today, it’ll hurt us both.
A smile tugs at my lips, and a breath I didn’t realize I was holding escapes. Suddenly, the nerves feel less suffocating.
Me: Thanks for the vote of confidence. And where exactly would I run to, your guest room?
Me: And since you trust me so little, how do you plan on convincing these shareholders that I can run a profitable business?
Not-so-much-of-a-jackass-anymore Raymond Teager: Don’t worry. I can act when I need to.
Me: Of course you can.
With only a few texts from him, I already feel more like myself. Something about Raymond, his bluntness, his teasing, grounds me. It’s like he knows exactly what I need right now.
How ridiculous is that? The man who’s turned my life upside down for months now somehow has this strange ability to make me feel…capable.
Not-so-much-of-a-jackass-anymore Raymond Teager: Before you come up, I suggest keeping the hate in check.
Me: Whatever you say, partner.
Not-so-much-of-a-jackass-anymore Raymond Teager: Perfect. Now come up, Firefly.
Me: Firefly? That’s possibly the worst nickname I’ve been given.
Not really. “Dadless daughter” still tops that chart.
Not-so-much-of-a-jackass-anymore Raymond Teager: What can I say? When you get all riled up…
And he stops there! That infuriating man stops there . I want to throw my hands up or maybe throw my phone at his head.
Me: You going to finish that sentence, or do I have to come upstairs and physically extract it from you?
Not-so-much-of-a-jackass-anymore Raymond Teager: Sorry, someone walked into my office, and I hit send too early.
I blink at the text, rereading it because…it feels so…human.
When did this man, who always seems like he has everything under control, including the air around him, turn into someone who makes mistakes and admits to them? But staying in his house these past few days has been like peeling back the layers from a human I thought I knew, but apparently didn’t know at all.
Not-so-much-of-a-jackass-anymore Raymond Teager: I was going to say that when you get all riled up, you look like a tiny bomb. But now I’m curious about what physical ways you have in mind.
And just like that, I can practically see him in my head—arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked, that infuriating smirk on his face. My smile stretches wide despite myself.
Me: Don’t turn my words dirty, Teager.
Not-so-much-of-a-jackass-anymore Raymond Teager: How could I ever do such a thing? Now get up here, Firefly.
Me: How did you even know I was sitting in the parking lot?
Not-so-much-of-a-jackass-anymore Raymond Teager: I’ve got my eyes on you, baby.
My pulse stutters. Damn him. That comment should feel creepy—stalkerish, even—but my traitorous brain twists it into something…almost intimate.
I press my hand over my mouth, trying to hide my ridiculously growing smile.
Crap! You idiot, Willow.
This is just Raymond being Raymond—charming, smooth, slick. But I can’t forget for a second that he’s the same man who spent months trying every way possible to take my land short of threatening me. Just because we’re on the same team today doesn’t mean he’s suddenly my best buddy.
He’s being polite—friendly, even—but that’s all it is.
Shaking off the flurry of confusing emotions, I grab the leather laptop bag I borrowed from Elodie and make my way inside. My usual boho-print canvas tote wouldn’t exactly fit in with the high-class, professional crowd I’m about to face.
At the reception desk, the woman greets me with a polished smile. “Miss Pershing, I have your name here. Please take the left elevator and press the ‘R’ button. That’s Mr. Teager’s private elevator. I’ll authorize your access.”
“Oh, The Shark has his own private elevator.”
Of course, his receptionist doesn’t seem to find my joke amusing. Once the elevator doors close, I finally give myself a thorough once-over in the mirrored walls. God bless concealer. I probably used my yearly quota to cover every inch of my tattoos.
The doors open to a sleek, spacious lobby that’s so quiet it feels like stepping into a library. I’m about to move forward when his voice echoes throughout the space.
“Where do you think you’re going, Miss Pershing?”
My lips curl up, almost involuntarily. What is it about this man’s voice that’s starting to mess with me?
I turn, fully expecting his usual smirk, but it slips. His expression changes so fast—his eyes burn with intensity, a dark fire flickering beneath the surface.
He looks upset. At me?