22. A Shirtless Teacher
A SHIRTLESS TEACHER
WILLOW
I scroll through the email from Elixir Estates’ design team, clicking open the attachments filled with layout proposals for the interiors. Each image makes my chest tighten. Gramps’s dream is right there in glossy mock-ups, so close I can almost touch it. I never imagined this would feel so…easy.
But then, like clockwork, guilt creeps in, whispering that I’m taking more out of this arrangement than I’m giving back to Raymond. The thought sits heavy, but I shake my head, refusing to let it take root. I made a deal with Raymond—yeah, except every moment I spend with him and Quill feels real in ways I never expected, filling my heart with emotions I can’t name. But even if my heart is tripping over feelings I can’t make sense of, I know one thing—I’ll be the best caretaker, the most reliable nanny, and the truest friend to Quill. That’s the job I signed up for, and I’ll do it with absolute perfection.
The vibrating buzz of my phone pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. I glance down, and of course, it’s Raymond.
Raymond: There’s something important I need to tell you.
No hi. No hello. Straight to the point, as always.
Once upon a time, I found his bluntness irritating, and now, it’s one of the things I admire most about him. No fluff, no pretense, just honest, unapologetic Raymond Teager. He’s everything one would want in a man—everything I’d want in my man. The thought comes out of nowhere, hitting me like a rogue wave.
Calm the heck down, Wills.
Raymond: It’s Quill’s birthday next week. Our little bug will be seven.
I blink at the word our . It lingers in the air, curling around my heart like a warm hug.
Raymond: This will be her first birthday in my house.
Oh my God. My chest tightens just imagining what he must be feeling right now. Without overthinking, my fingers fly over the screen.
Me: I can help you with anything you need.
Raymond: You have to. I can’t do this without you, Firefly.
And just like that, my lips curve into the most ridiculous, uncontrollable smile. This man and his damn nickname. Every time he calls me Firefly, my stomach flips like I’m on the world’s most dangerous roller coaster.
Me: What do you have in mind?
I stare at the screen, watching the typing bubbles pop up. And stay up. For way longer than usual. My pulse quickens as I imagine all the ideas swirling in his head. Just when I think I might burst with curiosity, his reply comes through.
Raymond: I found this group of performers who dress up and do story enactments for kids. I was thinking of booking them to perform Little Women. What do you think?
My grip on the phone tightens.
Me: Gosh, Ray. That’s amazing.
I realize only after pressing send on the text what I’ve done. The nickname only Raymond’s family calls him slipped before I even realized it. I stare at the screen, panicking for a second. But Raymond doesn’t miss a beat.
Raymond: I’m so glad you like it. It’s the only thing I’ve thought of so far, and I know there’s so much more to do. I’m going to call a party planner this evening.
Me: A party planner? Absolutely not. Did you forget I organize events for a living at Whispering Willow?
Raymond: I know. But I want you to enjoy the day with Quill and not stress out.
God, this man is gonna kill me.
Me: I will enjoy it. Organizing parties is my thing. My happy place. And for my little surprise packet, I’ll make sure it’s the best party ever.
Raymond: Are you sure?
Me: Of course. I’ll handle the decor, invitations, and food.
A crazy idea starts to take form in my head, and thank God Raymond told me a week before, because I’ll need all the time for this.
* * *
I stare at the disaster I’ve created on the counter, questioning the very moment that brought me here. What kind of delusional confidence made me think this was a good idea? I can’t even warm up a frozen pizza without the oven plotting revenge. It’s like we have some unresolved feud from a past life.
My eyes shift to the picture on my phone. The cake—pastel yellow base with bright yellow sunflowers taking center stage, surrounded by hand-piped light green leaves and a cluster of small white wildflowers for contrast. It feels more like a bouquet of happiness, especially with the tiny sugar bee perching on the side of the cake. It’s not one of the simplest designs, but it’s perfect for Quill. I want to give her something heartfelt for her big day, something that would make her smile. My throat tightens as I fight off the stupid, unexpected lump of emotion creeping up on me.
Why the hell am I on the verge of tears? It’s not like I promised her a homemade cake. Thankfully, a small rational part of my brain knew better than to aim that high.
I pick up the cake base and tap it against the counter. It’s so solid it could double as a hockey puck. When I set it down again, it lands with a heavy thud, practically shouting its failure at me.
I’m so lost in self-pity that I don’t even hear him come into the kitchen until his voice reaches me. “Willow?”
I spin around, and my heart doesn’t just skip a beat—it full-on leaps out of my chest. Raymond Teager is standing there. In track pants.
Correction: just track pants.
I’m used to him in tailored suits, buttoned to perfection. I haven’t even seen the guy barefoot, let alone shirtless. Yet here he is, all sculpted muscles and masculine perfection, like he just stepped out of an ad for an upscale gym.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe I’m dreaming. Yeah, that would explain it. A very vivid, highly detailed dream.
“What’s going on?” His voice is closer now, and when I open my eyes, I find him standing under the soft glow of the pendant lights.
I hear the question. I see his lips move. But my brain is stuck on a loop, cataloging every inch of him. He’s breathtaking, the kind of beautiful that doesn’t feel fair. Like an artist took their time crafting him, pouring every ounce of skill and attention into getting every single detail just right.
As if Raymond somehow knows the riot going on in my head, his voice cuts through the fog. This time when he says my name, it’s low and deliberate, the deep timbre settling into every nerve ending I possess.
“Willow.”
My eyes snap up to his face, and I’m met with a slow, lazy smile curling his lips. “Do you know it’s past midnight?” he asks, casting a quick glance behind me at the disaster zone I’ve created on the kitchen counter.
I don’t reply. Actually, I can’t reply.
If in this given moment, Raymond asked my name, I might struggle. This is too much masculinity for a girl who hasn’t seen any action in a long, long time .
I force myself to look away, to breathe, to remember that I’m a grown woman and not some hormonal teenager seeing abs for the first time.
“I was trying to make a test cake for Quill’s birthday,” I manage finally, though my voice comes out a little too fast. “And you should be grateful it was a test, because if this were the real one, we’d be facing charges for accidental poisoning.”
His lips twitch and he takes another step closer, the scent of cedarwood and lavender wrapping around me, filling every available space.
“What’s the real problem, Firefly?” His voice dips lower, softer, and then he gently tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.
There’s so much I want to say.
You being shirtless.
You standing this close.
You being the leading star in my every intrusive thought these days.
But of course, none of that can come out, so I settle on the truth. “I don’t know how to bake.” The words wobble out, shaky and raw. He’s the one without a shirt, yet somehow, I’m the one standing here feeling completely exposed.
Raymond takes another step forward, bringing him dangerously close. His body cages mine against the counter as he leans in, and the smallest brush of contact sends my pulse into a tailspin.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
My mouth is too close to his ear, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he leans in further, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder. My breath catches, and my eyes close instinctively, my hands curling into fists at my sides as if that’ll somehow steady me. Then I hear it—the soft scrape of the cake base being lifted.
“Don’t touch it!” I shove at him, my hands landing squarely on his chest. A mistake. A huge, colossal mistake.
He doesn’t budge and neither do my hands.
Oh God. He’s solid. All muscle. Like someone carved him out of stone.
“I’m just trying to figure out what went wrong,” he murmurs.
A moment later, he straightens, and I drop my hands like they’ve been scorched. Because touching Raymond like this is wildly inappropriate.
“You used too little rising agent,” he announces, as if this is common knowledge.
I blink. “When…when did you become a cake master?”
His grin is maddeningly smug. “I’m the son of the woman who owns the largest cake chain in the country, so I know a thing or two.”
Right. Of course. Why didn’t I connect those dots?
My stomach drops. “Your mom is bringing a cake for Quill’s party, isn’t she?”
What the hell were you thinking, Wills?
Hope Teager turns every kid’s birthday into a dream, and here I was thinking I’d serve this monstrosity that shouldn’t even be touched with a hazmat suit on.
Raymond nods his head and his expression softens. “She was. Now she isn’t.”
“Raymond,” I gasp, panic swelling in my chest. “I can’t?—”
“Shh.” He presses a finger lightly to my lips, silencing me with a single touch. “ We’re going to bake our bug the best birthday cake.”
Before I can formulate an argument or run for the hills, Raymond spins me around, locking me between him and the counter again. His movements are firm yet oddly gentle, and I’m suddenly very aware of the breadth of his chest against my back.
“What’s happening?” My voice comes out half a squeak, half a horrified whisper.
“Haven’t you heard?” His tone is almost teasing. “If you give a man a fish, he eats for a day. But if you teach him how to fish…” He leaves the rest unsaid as he leans closer, his chin once again finding its place on my shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe that’s what shocks me the most, that Raymond has started to feel that way—natural.
“Are you following any recipe?” Raymond’s voice hums against my ear, low and deep.
I lift a hand, pointing to my phone on the counter.
For the next hour, he remains glued to my side—no, scratch that, glued behind me. Every movement in the kitchen, every reach for a utensil or a bowl, has been orchestrated by the firm grip of his hands on my waist, steering me like I’m some kind of cake-baking puppet.
When the icing finally comes together, glossy and perfect in the mixer, he dips a finger into the bowl and scoops up a dollop of the pale yellow frosting. Before I can process what’s happening, he’s holding it to my lips.
“Taste,” he says, his words brushing against my skin in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
It’s not a request—it’s a command wrapped in velvet, his tone threading through me like electricity. I don’t just hear him, I feel him. Every syllable sends a ripple of awareness down my spine, lighting up my nerve endings like fireworks.
I part my lips and take his finger into my mouth. My eyes flutter shut.
I try to focus on the sweetness of the icing, on the silky texture of the frosting. Anything to distract myself from the way my entire body is suddenly on fire.
What kind of sorcery is this?
I’ve had boyfriends. Casual flings, as I’m very clearly not looking for anything serious. Experiences that were perfectly fine, even great, in bed. But nothing— nothing —has ever made me feel this undone.
A quiet, breathy moan slips out before I can stop it, and the second it does, the entire atmosphere shifts. That’s when I feel it. Him.
He’s hard, very hard and big. Like, anatomically shocking levels of big.
A shiver runs through me, uncontrollable and all-consuming.
“Fuck.” The word leaves him in a low growl, and he shifts, putting distance between our lower halves.
But the damage is done. One accidental press of his body, and I’m fully aware that Raymond Teager isn’t just devastatingly handsome. This man is built . Through and through.
For a beat, the kitchen is silent except for our ragged breathing. My head falls back against his bare chest, and I grip the edge of the counter so tightly my knuckles ache. His hand, the one that isn’t currently my favorite lollipop, tightens on my waist, holding me steady like he knows I’m moments away from liquefying into a puddle on his kitchen floor. The now clean digit slips from my mouth with a faint, mortifying pop, and looks oddly pruney.
Did I just…?
Oh God. Did I just suck on his finger for that long?
I nearly die of embarrassment on the spot.
“It’s—” I start, but my voice is so small it’s practically a squeak. I clear my throat and try again. “It’s good.” I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore.
The icing? Him? The way his finger felt in my mouth like I was born to suck it? All of the above?
Raymond doesn’t move. He stays locked in place, solid and unmoving behind me. His chest rises and falls heavily, as if he’s silently willing his hard-on to calm the fuck down . I don’t know why, but I imagine that’s how he must be talking to his cock.
And honestly? I feel for the man, or men in general. It must suck to be unable to hide their… feelings .
I send a silent thank-you to every deity in existence for the invention of padded bras. And for the fact that, by some miracle, I’m wearing one tonight. Because if I wasn’t, my nipples would be giving some tough competition to Raymond’s erection on hardness.
He hesitates for a moment before picking up the piping bag. As he shifts, his cock brushes against my ass a few more times. Each accidental contact is followed by a low, grumbled curse muttered under his breath. Yet he manages to handle the bag with a confidence that leaves me a little envious. While I’d have spilled half the icing or sent the nozzle flying across the kitchen, he works with practiced ease, his hands steady as he recreates the design from the photo. Only better.
When he pipes the last green leaf beside the yellow sunflower, I can’t help but stare. The cake is stunning, and for a moment, the world narrows to just one thing—the giddy feeling in my chest at how perfect it is. Quill is going to love it.
Without thinking, I spin around and throw my arms around Raymond. This man, who’s been nothing but a series of surprises since the day I walked into his home, has managed to turn my hopeless disaster into magic.
“Thank you,” I murmur, squeezing him tightly. “Thank you so much. You did it.”
“We did it, Firefly. For our bug. For her first birthday in her dad’s house. In her home.” His voice dips as he speaks, and then his arms tighten around me, wrapping me in something far warmer than just his embrace.
His words make my throat tighten. This isn’t just about a cake. This is about love, hope, and the life he’s building for Quill. And tonight, I feel like I’m not just holding a man. I’m holding every emotion he’s poured into this moment. It’s all there—raw, unspoken, but so deeply felt.
We stay like that, tangled together in the quiet. No words are exchanged because none are needed. His unsaid feelings are big enough to fill the entire room, and I let myself soak them in. Eventually, Raymond steps back, though his hands linger on my waist for just a beat longer than necessary. His gaze drops to the cake, softening as he tilts his head toward it.
“So, since this was a test run, what do you want to do with it?”
I blink, needing a second to shift back into practical mode. “I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll take it to the nursing home or the children’s hospital. I just don’t want Quill to see it before her big day.”
“Good thinking.” He steps toward the fridge and carefully places the cake inside. “Let’s keep it safe until you decide.”
It takes every ounce of willpower I have to pull myself out of his orbit. My steps are shaky as I head back to my room and crawl into bed, taking off my bra before pulling the covers over me. My eyes flutter shut, replaying the last few hours like a movie reel, only this time I’m a spectator.
From a distance, I imagine every flicker of emotion on Ray’s face as I stood there, trapped in his captivity. I slide my hands under the waistband of my shorts because just the thought of Raymond Teager in all his jaw-dropping glory is the most potent foreplay I’ve ever experienced.
I get close—so close—but the big O refuses to RSVP. After several frustrating near misses, I let out an exasperated groan and slam my head against the pillow.
“Tonight is not your night, Wills,” I mutter to the ceiling.
Crap. Nothing comes easy these days. Not orgasms. Not peace. Not sleep.
Frustration bubbles to the surface, and I grab my phone and open the group chat with my girls because someone has to help me claw my way out of this misery.
Me: What do you do when you’re climbing that wall, but your damn body refuses to make the leap?
Violet’s reply comes almost instantly. Of course, she’s a self-proclaimed night-owl extraordinaire.
Violet: Are we talking about orgasms or someone going through a crisis? If it’s the latter, tell me where you are.
I chuckle despite myself and roll onto my side to reply.
Me: Don’t worry, I’m safely tucked into bed. Unfortunately, this is about orgasms.
I hit send and am about to type more when another notification flashes across the top of my screen.
Raymond.
My heart stutters so hard I drop the phone onto my chest before scrambling to open the message.
Raymond: If you don’t mind, I might have an idea for the cake tomorrow.
Me: Of course.
Raymond: Good night, Firefly.
I’m still staring at his text like a lovesick teenager when Violet’s message interrupts.
Violet: You don’t need to jump the wall yourself. You need someone to push you over.
Yeah, well, tell that to my brain, Vi. Because the only someone it wants is completely off-limits. I only do casual, and Raymond has serious written all over his face when it comes to his personal life.
Me: What I really need is a damn good vibrator. It’s been so long since I had a proper orgasm, my body’s forgotten how to get there on its own.
I hit send with a little too much force, hoping the sheer act of venting will deflate my frustration. Instead, I lie there in this unfamiliar bed that’s starting to feel uncomfortably familiar, my pulse pounding, my body restless.
But when seconds turn into minutes of radio silence, I pick up my phone again. Why hasn’t she replied? Violet never leaves a conversation unfinished, not even at this ridiculous hour. The second my eyes land on the screen, my blood runs cold and the device tumbles from my hands.
Noooo. God, no.
I didn’t send that message to Violet.
I sent it to Raymond freaking Teager.
I stare at the screen, willing time to reverse, but there it is. The read receipt glares back at me like a neon sign announcing my mortification to the universe. I’m about to hide under all the covers that are available in this house when there’s a knock on my door.
Crap! Crap! Crap!
He read my text about my orgasm drought and decided to…what? Follow up in person?
Frozen in panic, I don’t move. Not a muscle. I’m a full-blown possum, playing dead as the door creaks open slowly.