21. A Prickly Beard
A PRICKLY BEARD
RAYMOND
“S o, how was tonight for you?” Willow’s voice drifts from Quill’s room, soft but tinged with worry, and my fingers still on the keyboard. Whatever I was typing instantly loses its importance.
Willow Pershing surprised me again. The evening felt like stepping into an alternate universe. It started with Willow’s fierce overprotectiveness, like she’d declared herself a bodyguard—not just for Quill, but somehow for me too. Then came her nana. That woman is a firecracker, sharp as a blade and utterly unfiltered. It didn’t take long to figure out from whom Willow inherited her wit and feistiness.
Watching Willow tonight was equal parts endearing and downright hilarious. She was so on edge the whole time, like she wasn’t in her childhood home but in some foreign, hostile territory. The way she hustled us out of there at the end was pure classic. If I hadn’t been so focused on surviving the evening, I might have teased her about it.
Her voice cuts through my thoughts again. “Yes, that’s the house where I grew up.”
The worry in her tone is gone now, replaced by something calmer. Quill must not be as rattled as Willow feared.
“Yes, we can definitely take Captain Lick with us next time.”
A grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. Willow’s voice is so flat, so resigned, it’s almost laughable. She’s definitely not going back to her grandmother’s house anytime soon, especially not with my daughter in tow. I’d bet my entire portfolio on it.
“Now get in bed, Quillbug.”
There’s a pause, and I can picture my Quill asking something more.
“Really? Your obsession with these books is verging into crazy territory,” Willow says, her tone mock exasperated. “I thought you’d be too tired to listen to them twice in the same evening.”
I let my eyes drift shut, imagining the scene. I can almost see Willow standing there, hands on her hips, rolling her eyes at my daughter in that way only she can.
“You don’t like when I call you crazy? Too bad,” she continues, and I can hear the smile creeping into her voice. “But when you ask me and your dad to read the same pages in the same evening, you practically earn that label, my silly-milly Miss Teager.”
And then it happens—a sound I’ve been waiting six long months to hear—my daughter giggles. A noise so soft, so light, it stops my heart mid-beat. And as if the universe wants me to be sure I’m not hallucinating, she follows it up with words.
Actual words. Not signs. Not gestures.
“You called me silly, Willow.” Quill’s voice is sweet and pure, like every angelic symphony rolled into one.
I lurch out of my chair so fast I bang my knee against the desk. Pain rockets up my leg, but I barely notice. I swallow the curse threatening to escape and cross my office in two giant strides. A second later, I’m standing outside Quill’s room, holding my breath.
“And you are my cutest but most obsessive silly surprise packet.”
Through the narrow crack of the door, I watch as Willow gently ruffles Quill’s hair. My daughter scrunches her nose and sticks out her tongue.
“I’m not silly.” Her voice again. My daughter’s voice.
The sound knocks the wind out of me. My heart thuds so hard in my chest it feels like I might black out. My legs go weak, and I slap my hand against the wall to steady myself, desperate not to fall and ruin this fragile, perfect moment. But I’m not as stealthy as I think. When I glance back at the room, Willow is staring straight at me through the gap in the door. Her hazel eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything feels suspended—time, sound, space.
Guilt hits me hard. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, and the truth is, I don’t want to be. What I want is to walk in there, to hear everything Quill says, to soak in her every syllable like they’re oxygen. But that’s not our reality. Not yet.
I know the second I step inside, the spell will break. She’ll retreat, fall back into the silence that has blanketed our lives for months.
I can’t risk it. Not tonight.
Someday, I want the walls of this house to echo with her laughter, to remember the melody of her voice. I want her to feel so safe, so free, that she’ll never hesitate to share her secrets, her fears, and her joys.
As if she can read my mind, Willow shifts slightly, angling herself so that Quill naturally turns her back to the door—and to me. Willow picks up the hairbrush from Quill’s nightstand. “Since you get two versions of the same story every day, which one do you like better? Mine or your dad’s?”
The question lands with an unspoken weight, and I know instantly what she’s doing. I’d asked Quill the same thing the first night Willow stepped into our house. While my motives were purely selfish, I know Willow is asking for my benefit.
Quill giggles—again—and my heart stutters. “I like both,” she says.
“Of course you do,” Willow says, brushing Quill’s hair with easy strokes. “You’ve got everyone wrapped around your little finger. So tell me, what are your favorite things to do with your dad? Besides reading, of course.”
Quill doesn’t miss a beat. “I love when he braids my hair. I love when we shop online for clothes. I also love when he falls asleep in my room while reading. He’s so warm, and he snores like a big bear. Oh, and I love when he blows raspberries and kisses on my cheek, and I also love when the hair of his chin prickles my face.”
My hand instinctively grazes my jawline, where my five o’clock shadow lingers, and a goofy grin spreads across my face. My kid likes my beard? That’s…unexpected.
“Willow, how do you like the hair on my dad’s chin?” Quill asks. “Did it prickle when he caught you that day?”
Willow’s cheeks flush a rosy pink. She ducks her head, her lips twitching as if trying to suppress a smile. My grin only grows as she mumbles, “It was fine.”
But Quill is far from done. “And do you like it when my dad braids your hair?”
“Yes, that’s fine too,” Willow replies quickly.
I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. My little bug has managed to fluster Willow Pershing—a sight that’s a rarity. My hand slips into my pocket and brushes against my phone. The urge to hit record is strong, to capture Quill’s words so I can replay them a thousand times over. But then I stop myself. I don’t want a recording. I want this. Every day. The sound of her words, her thoughts, her laughter filling this house.
“Okay, enough questions for tonight,” Willow announces, her tone soft but firm as she sets the brush aside. “Bedtime, Quillbug. I’ll read just one page tonight since it’s already late.”
Willow’s voice dips into her storytelling cadence, and like always, she enacts all the different characters.
When Willow closes the book earlier than usual, Quill’s lips turn down. “But Dad’s not even here yet.”
That one word—Dad—hits me harder than it should. Goose bumps rise along my arms as I let it sink in.
“I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” Willow’s eyes find mine in the shadows.
I count to five, grounding myself in the moment, before rolling my shoulders. With my hands tucked in my pockets, I step around the doorway and lean casually against the frame, projecting the kind of confidence I don’t exactly feel.
“Is my bug ready for a bedtime story, or has she already worn herself out?”
Quill’s giggle is silent this time, a little shake of her shoulders. My chest tightens, a pang of disappointment creeping in. But I shove it aside, locking it up before it can settle. Today was progress, a step forward. She’ll get there—when she’s ready.
Willow stands, setting the book back on the nightstand. “Your job now is to make sure she actually sleeps. We don’t want her running late for school tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll go check if Captain Lick has forgiven me for leaving him behind with Grandpa Will.”
I give her a two-finger salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
As she moves past me, our eyes briefly meet, and I don’t even try to hide my emotions from her. Then I take her spot beside Quill.
“Alright, Bug. You heard Willow. We need to activate your sleep mode fast tonight.”
Hope is a relentless thing. No matter how many times I remind myself that Quill will speak to me when she’s ready, I can’t stop wishing that moment might be tonight. But as I read, her eyelids grow heavy, and her breathing slows. She drifts off without a word. Yet as I tuck the blanket around her tiny frame and kiss her forehead, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time—a quiet optimism, stronger than anything I’ve found in all the offices of the world’s best therapists.
When I leave Quill’s room, I don’t head to my bedroom. Instead, my feet move on their own, carrying me down the hall to the other wing. The door to her room is cracked open, and there she is, standing in front of the vanity. Willow catches my reflection in the mirror as I step in. She sets the hairbrush down without breaking eye contact.
Before I can second-guess myself, I’m behind her, wrapping her in my arms. “Thank you. Thank you so fucking much.”
The lump in my throat is impossible to ignore, and for once, I don’t even try to swallow it down. Not with her. Not tonight.
“Raymond.” My name falls from her lips, full of surprise. Her hazel eyes meet mine in the mirror, but I don’t let go. Her hands move to rest on mine, soft but grounding, her fingers squeezing gently as though she understands the tidal wave of emotion crashing inside me. “She has such a beautiful voice,” Willow murmurs, barely above a whisper.
“She so fucking does.”
We don’t need more words after that. I just hold her, letting the steady rhythm of her breathing tether me as my racing heart starts to slow. Her presence feels like an anchor in a storm of my emotions. When I finally open my eyes, I find hers still on me. My arms stay locked around her, the worn fabric of her maroon T-shirt soft under my palms. Her night shorts stop mid-thigh, leaving her long legs on display, the dark vine tattoos curling around them like art.
In this moment, Willow looks like she belongs here. In my house. In my arms. That thought should terrify me, but it doesn’t. Not even a little.
Without thinking, I rest my head against her shoulder, pressing a kiss on the fabric there. It’s simple, instinctive, as gratitude and something unnamable swell in my chest, making it hard to breathe. “Thanks.”
Her breath hitches, her grip on my arms tightening, and her voice comes out soft, shaky. “You don’t have to thank me, Raymond. That’s why I’m here.”
She’s right. I brought her into this house, into our lives, with a clear, logical purpose. But that purpose has grown into something so tangled, so intricate, filled with real emotions, it no longer feels like a temporary arrangement.
Her scent—citrus with a hint of sweetness—fills my lungs. It’s soothing, intoxicating, and every second I spend with her, it feels more essential. But I can’t stay here forever, holding her like she’s mine.
She’s not. Even though every part of me wishes she were.
Yet before she steps away, I tilt my chin, letting the roughness of my stubble graze her cheek. Her body stills, a faint tremor running through her.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, her voice low and hesitant.
“In case Quill asks again how you like the feel of her dad’s beard. I want you to give an honest answer.”
Her lips twitch into a faint smile. “Uh-huh, thanks for the reminder. It feels fine.”
I don’t bother hiding my grin as she steps away, reclaiming her space. “So should I go extra close with my razor tomorrow?”
“Raymond Teager taking grooming advice from me? Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Raymond Teager has been doing a lot of things differently since you showed up, Miss Willow Billow Pershing.”
There’s a touch of surprise as her eyebrow rises, realizing I haven’t missed her middle name. I’ll have to ask her the real story behind it some other day.
“Good to know I’m not the only one going crazy these days,” she mutters, looking down for a second before grabbing her phone.
Her expression shifts and I know she’s about to change the subject. I welcome the distraction as Willow points to the screen.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something else. Can I get Quill a mini stereo for her room?”
I blink, surprised and curious. “A stereo?”
“Since she loves books, I thought maybe music could be another thing that moves her. I know she’s young, but your bug doesn’t always feel like a kid.”
A chuckle slips out of me. “I know exactly what you mean.” I run a hand over my face, thinking it through. It’s a great idea. Quill’s therapist has been encouraging me to introduce new things into her world, and this fits perfectly. “It’s fantastic. If you want, I can get the whole house wired with an audio system?—”
“No!” Willow’s hands shoot up like she’s stopping traffic. “I don’t want to overload her with technology.” Then, as if realizing how her reaction might come across, she tucks her hands behind her back, her voice softening. “Sorry. I know she’s your daughter?—”
This time, I don’t let her finish. I reach for her hands and gently pull them forward, not letting go. “Do it. I can already tell you that she’ll love it.”
Willow’s smile grows, lighting up her whole face. “I think so too.”
* * *
Notes of the latest pop song drift down the hallway. It’s not blasting, but it’s the loudest music my house has heard. Two days. That’s how long it’s been since Willow gave Quill the stereo. I’ve caught them huddled together, listening to music on and off, but today when I peek into Quill’s room, I freeze.
There she is, standing smack in the middle of her room with Captain Lick right beside her, wagging his tail like he’s the happiest creature on earth. Quill’s hips sway, completely offbeat to the music, her smile so big it could light up the whole town. In her hands, two colored pencils tap against the air as if she’s a mini drummer in an imaginary band. She’s so damn happy that it punches me square in the chest.
But then my daughter’s gaze locks on to mine. Her cheeks flush bright pink, and she ducks her head, suddenly shy. The magic moment screeches to a halt as I step farther inside.
“Why did you stop?” I ask gently.
She covers her face with her hands, peeking at me through her fingers. A beat passes before she moves her hands away long enough to sign, “I look stupid.”
My daughter calling herself stupid? Not happening. “You do not.” I kneel to her level. “You look happy. And when people are happy, they dance. That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Quill tilts her head, thinking it over like she’s weighing a serious argument. Then, with a curious look, she counters, “But you don’t.”
My lips twitch. “That’s not true. You’ve just never seen me dance.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, practically disappearing into her hairline. “Daddy, you can dance?”
“Well…” I stand, offering her my hand. “Let’s find out.”
I drape an arm over her shoulders, hold her tiny hand in mine, and move. All those childhood ballroom dance lessons suddenly feel worth it as I twirl Quill around the room. Her initial shock melts into pure joy, and she grins.
She’s all gasps when I let her spin, her little feet stumbling in that way only kids can make look cute. When I dip her dramatically, she grins so big I can see her molars. Her tongue sticks out when I pull her back up, but not before my chin grazes her cheek and her face lights up like Christmas morning.
She did say she likes my stubble, and I’d do anything to keep that joy on her face. The silly stuff. The little stuff.
We’re both grinning at each other when Quill’s gaze flicks to the doorway. Her smile somehow grows even bigger. I turn, following her line of sight, and there’s Willow, leaning against the doorframe. Her face says everything—surprise, pride, amusement.
“Wow, Quillbug. Who knew your dad had such killer moves?”
Willow’s teasing hits me, and for a split second, heat flashes across my face in embarrassment, but it fades quickly.
I tuck my tongue in my cheek, giving her my best smug grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” With an exaggerated bow, I throw in a curtsy for good measure, earning a laugh that lights up the room.
Quill bounces on her feet, pigtails bobbing. She signs with an excited flourish, “Your turn, Willow!”
Of course. My little bug makes sure Willow’s always in the mix—our mix. Honestly, I’ve started looking forward to these moments, when it’s no longer just me and Quill anymore, but the three of us.
But Willow shakes her head, holding her hands up in mock surrender. Oh, but she’s not getting out of this. She caught me off guard and now it’s payback time. With a single step, I close the distance between us, capturing her outstretched hand before she can make her escape.
“Backsies aren’t allowed in this house, Miss Pershing. You should know that by now. Isn’t that right, Bug?” I pull Willow gently toward the center of the room.
Quill nods with all the authority of an official referee, her hands mimicking my words. Her eyes sparkle as she signs, “No backsies, Willow!”
Willow tries one last time. “Raymond?—”
But I don’t give her a chance to say anything else. Not tonight. Not when having her here with me and Quill feels so damn natural, so right. I don’t want to think about anything other than how seamlessly she fits into this room, this moment, our lives.
I slide my hand to her waist, my movements slow, deliberate, giving her an opportunity to pull away. But she doesn’t. Instead, she stares at me—half shocked, half amused and that’s all the encouragement I need.
I guide her into a classic ballroom hold and Willow follows effortlessly, like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
“Aren’t you a surprise?” I murmur, raising a brow at her flawless steps. But why am I even shocked? Since day one, Willow Pershing has been defying every expectation, proving time and again that she’s everything I never saw coming.
Her lips twitch, and she rolls her eyes. “Don’t look so shocked, Teager. I run a B and B that hosts weddings. Not knowing ballroom dancing would be a crime.”
I chuckle, spinning her in a twirl that makes her pink dress flare out. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed how Quill and Willow have started to color coordinate their dresses. My chest tightens. Before I can let myself linger on it, Quill claps her hands, pulling my attention back to her.
“Daddy, dip!” she signs enthusiastically.
“What?” Willow’s brow furrows in confusion, but I don’t wait to explain. I lean forward, dipping her low. Her hazel eyes go wide, and she grabs my forearms like her life depends on it. “Raymond!” she squeaks.
But before she finds her footing again, I let my stubble graze her cheek like I did with Quill. A playful, innocent act—until it happens.
Quill giggles.
Not the silent, shoulder-shaking kind, but an actual audible, soft, beautiful giggle.
My arms tighten instinctively around Willow as my head whips toward my daughter. She stands there, oblivious to the seismic shift she just created and signs, “Amazing, Dad.”
My breath catches. She doesn’t even realize what she’s done.
I glance down at Willow, who’s smiling wide, her eyes misty. Her hand rises, brushing against my chest as she whispers, her voice trembling with the same emotion thrumming through me. “Yes, amazing, Dad. Really amazing.”
For a moment, everything else fades. It’s just the three of us—me, my little bug, and the woman who’s slowly but surely making herself a permanent part of our lives.