29. Tonight’s Plan Sex and Booze
TONIGHT’S PLAN: SEX AND BOOZE
WILLOW
I secure Captain Lick in his bag and click Quill’s seat belt into place. As I slide into the driver’s seat, my phone pings with a new text.
Raymond: Can you keep Quill away for another hour? We’re still not done.
I’m not surprised. When I left the house with Quill, Raymond and his cousins swooped in to set up the garden for her surprise birthday party tomorrow. I’d texted them sample pictures and a link to the Pinterest board I’d made. Even though they confirmed it’d be done on time, I knew they had their work cut out for them.
I glance out the window, debating whether to kill time back at the bustling shopping street. But the market is teeming with people, and the last thing I want is to navigate through the chaos with Quill and Captain Lick.
“Are we not going home?” Quill asks, her big green eyes locking on mine.
“How about a detour?” I shift back into drive.
Her eyes light up. “Where are we going?”
“To Whispering Willow.”
Her brows lift as her face breaks into a delighted smile. “That’s your name!”
“It is,” I confirm, chuckling as I steer us toward the outskirts of town. During the drive, I tell her about my grandparents and their B&B. Her excitement is contagious, and I realize how much I like sharing my life with Quill.
As I anticipated, Mom and Nana descend on us the second we step through the door, doting on Quill. The two women might as well have forgotten I exist, and honestly, it’s a relief. If it means avoiding questions about my “fiancé,” I’ll take it. But before they can completely overwhelm my girl with homemade cookies or stories about my embarrassing childhood, I grab Quill’s hand and whisk her away to show her around.
When we reach the front of the property, Quill stops abruptly, her wide eyes fixed on the green wooden sign hanging proudly from the stone wall.
“Whispering Willow,” she reads aloud, her little voice soft but clear. She tilts her head, as if puzzled over something. “Does it mean quiet Willow?”
I laugh, crouching beside her. “Something like that.” I tug her hand gently. “Now come on. I’ve got something else to show you.”
We take the dirt path lined with towering evergreens. The trail connects the back of the B&B to our upcoming, still nameless, wedding estate.
“This,” I say as we emerge into the clearing, “is something your dad and I have been working on.”
“Together?” she squeaks, practically bouncing.
By now, I know how much Quill likes when I’m in the mix with her and her dad.
“Together,” I confirm, my own voice steady despite the strange flutter in my chest.
We approach the building where the construction work is running in full flow. The high iron gate is freshly installed, its subtle sage-green paint a soft, welcoming touch—so unlike the stark black gates most estates opt for. Low stone walls flank either side, already draped with ivy that will grow lush and thick in time. Roses climb the building’s exterior, their soft blooms framing the walls in a perfect blend of wild and elegant.
Quill signs, “This looks so beautiful,” and honestly, I couldn’t agree more.
We stroll farther onto the estate grounds, Quill’s small hand wrapped tightly in mine, until we reach the stream at the edge of the property. I’ve been waiting to share my favorite spot with her—the one where Gramps and I spent countless hours dreaming about this place, which is slowly becoming a reality. But as my eyes fall on the clearing, my knees nearly buckle.
A brand-new porch swing hangs from the branches of the willow tree Gramps and I planted together years ago. My breath catches as I step closer, the golden plaque on the backrest glinting in the last rays of sunset.
“In loving memory of Mike Pershing.”
Quill tilts her head, reading aloud, “M-I-K-E. Who’s Mike?”
“My gramps,” I manage, my throat tightening around the words.
Emotion rises so fast, so fierce, I can’t stop it. How did Raymond know to put the swing here? Then it hits me. The presentation. The photo of Gramps and me in this exact spot was one of the slides I’d shown him at La Bella Vita.
“Can we sit on the swing?” Quill asks, her eyes lighting up. I hoist her up, then slide in beside her. The soft creak of the chains feels both new and nostalgic.
“It says press me,” she points out, her tiny finger hovering over a switch on the armrest. Before I can think about it, she presses on it, and the tree comes alive.
Tiny fairy lights hanging between its branches flicker on, casting a warm glow over us.
“Wow,” Quill whispers, her voice filled with awe, while I’m unable to form a response.
The tree I’ve always associated with loss and loneliness now feels…alive. Warm. Comforting. Something childhood dreams are made of. Tears blur my vision even when I try to stop them, unbidden and unstoppable.
“Willow, are you sad?” Quill’s small hand rubs circles on my back.
I swipe at my cheeks and force a smile, shaking my head. “No, Bug. I’m just…emotional.”
Her brows pinch in worry. “Can I do something to make you happier?”
I pull her close, wrapping her in a tight hug. “You being here with me already makes me happy. But I miss my gramps, and I wish you could have met him.”
I sit there wrapped around the girl who chose me from the crowd and unknowingly changed my life. When I finally pull back, I notice the damp spots I’ve left on her dress. “I’m sorry for messing up your dress,” I say, laughing weakly through the last of my tears.
Quill shakes her head and brushes my cheeks with her small hands. “You can use my dress anytime, Willow. I just don’t like it when you cry.” Her forehead furrows briefly before she offers, “Would you like a cookie? My dad always gets me one when I’m upset.”
Her mention of Raymond tugs at something deep in my chest.
That maddening, perfect man who has somehow taken every broken part of my life and turned it into a fairy tale, even when I’ve fought it every step of the way. But every fairy tale comes to an end. Doesn’t it?
I shove the thought aside and turn to Quill. “Can I ask you something?”
She nods, her face still etched with concern.
“Why do you only speak in words to me?” My voice wavers, worried I’ll somehow hurt her.
Quill looks down, her shoulders rising in a small shrug. She takes several moments before saying, “I don’t know. When I saw you on the Ferris wheel, you looked sad. You looked like me.”
Her quiet words slam into me like a freight train. I remember that day so clearly. Nothing in my life was going as planned. I hadn’t even bothered to take the sunflower bud out of my purse, convinced the universe was laughing at me. Little did I know, Mother Nature was sending me a six-year-old miracle and her ridiculously infuriating, handsome dad.
I place my hand over hers. “I was sad that day, Bug. And I’m so glad you talked to me. You have such a beautiful voice, and one day, the people who love you are going to want to hear it. Your dad will want to hear it, when you’re ready. He loves you so much.” My voice breaks as Raymond’s face floods my mind—the way it lights up when he looks at Quill. The way he loves her so fiercely, it’s almost overwhelming.
Quill’s chin wobbles, her green eyes glistening as she looks up at me. “I want to talk to him, but I don’t know how.”
My chest tightens.
For the first time, I realize how similar we are. Both scared of love. Both holding back. Both unsure how to ask for what we want.
“You’ll find a way. I know when the time’s right, you will speak to your dad.”
As I say the words, I’m once again hit by the feeling that in order to be honest to this sweet girl, to show her, to tell her, how it feels to be fearless, I need to let go of my own fear at least one freaking time.
* * *
I stop outside Raymond’s bedroom door, my feet suddenly glued to the marble floor. The house is silent. Everyone’s asleep. Quill is tucked in bed, Captain Lick is probably chasing imaginary rabbits in his dreams, and all the house staff—including Grandpa Will—are long gone.
So, it’s just me standing here, fidgeting and second-guessing. I take a steadying breath and knock.
I wait…and wait some more, but nothing.
Crap. Is he already asleep?
Of course he is. The man isn’t a vampire. He doesn’t lurk around in the shadows waiting for a booty call I can’t even properly articulate.
Self-consciousness crashes over me like an avalanche. I wasted thirty whole minutes hyping myself up, reminding myself that I’m being ridiculous. That Ray knows I don’t do serious, so this—me standing outside his door like some midnight intruder—isn’t some cry for love. It’s me proving to myself that I can ask for intimacy, even when it’s terrifying.
But while I was lost in my existential pep talk, it never once occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, Raymond Teager had the audacity to fall asleep at a reasonable hour.
Freaking great, Wills.
I knock again, but it’s so weak even bats and dogs would miss it. Just as I turn to flee, the door swings open.
Raymond is standing there, dripping wet, a white towel slung low on his hips, water sliding down his chest like he just walked off a cologne ad.
I swallow air .
His hair is damp, strands clinging to his forehead, and all I can picture is him running out of the shower in a hurry.
“Willow? Is everything okay?” His voice is thick, laced with concern. “Is Bug okay?” His eyes scan my face, his brows furrowed.
I need a minute. Maybe ten.
“Yes. Shit. Sorry.” The words tumble out of my dry throat. “Quill’s asleep. I just checked on her.”
His broad shoulders relax, but his eyes stay locked on me, assessing, calculating. Then, as if he can hear every chaotic thought inside my head, his lips curve into a slow, knowing smile.
The tension shifts.
Raymond stretches, lifting his arms to rest on the doorframe, and dear God, help me, because all that does is put every ripple of muscle on display. Water drips from his hair, sliding over his chest, down his abs, disappearing beneath the towel.
He knows . He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Do you need something, Firefly?” His voice is soft, coaxing, like he’s daring me to admit exactly why I’m here.
I inhale deeply, breathing in courage along with oxygen. “I came to tell you something.”
His lips twitch. “And what would that be?”
I try to think of a decent reason for showing up at Raymond’s door, because my bravado and fearlessness have long left the building. “The cake is doing fine,” I mutter.
After putting Quill to bed, he and I spent hours baking that sunflower birthday cake for the party tomorrow. But this—showing up in the middle of the night, disturbing his peace to announce cake stability—was not my original plan.
“Uh-huh.” He cocks his head. “Was that all?”
My feet shift, my hands fidget. Meanwhile, the man covered in nothing but a towel looks like he has all the time in the world.
I panic blurt, “I hate my name.”
His smile falters.
I push forward, fast, because if I stop now, I’ll bolt. “You asked me about the Willow tattoo.” I point toward my chest. “I used to wonder why my mom named me after a tree that symbolizes loss and mourning. It always felt like I was destined to be sad. After Gramps died, I got so fed up with everything that I decided if living in sorrow was my destiny, I’d at least own it.”
Raymond doesn’t say anything. Just watches me like he’s piecing together a puzzle.
I swallow. “That’s why.”
He nods, his voice softer now. “Thank you.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For telling me.”
A beat passes. I wait for him to say something else, but instead, he turns and shuts the door.
What the hell just happened?
I stare at the wood paneling for ages, my heart hammering.
Did I just spill my deepest emotional baggage to the man I came here to request casual sex from?
I am so freaking bad at this.
I’m about to knock again and plead temporary insanity when the door swings back open.
Except this time, he’s dressed in a perfectly fitted navy-blue Armani suit with a crisp white shirt. His hair is still damp, but now, instead of half naked and dangerous, he looks like he’s about to close a million-dollar deal.
“Yes, that will be all,” he says to someone on the phone pressed against his ear before hanging up.
“Ray—”
Before I can get another word out, he grips my wrist and pulls me down the hall. “We’re going somewhere.”
“What—where?” I stumble, still trying to wrap my head around the rapid turn of events.
He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even look back.
How am I so bad at this sex thing? No surprise I suffered from an orgasm drought.
“Raymond.” I tug my hand out of his grip, and his steps come to a halt. “I came for sex, not your pity.”
His eyes darken like I’ve insulted him on a fundamental level. “You are the last person who needs anyone’s pity, Willow.”
My throat tightens.
He squeezes my hand and starts walking again. “I’m not opposed to sex, Firefly. But I think you could use a drink before we get there.”
My mouth opens, then closes and opens again. “Ray?—”
His grip tightens just enough to send a shiver up my spine. “Have we established tonight’s itinerary, or do you require something other than booze and sex?”
I shake my head because, yeah, booze, sex, and Raymond sound perfect. I let him pull me to the garage, but before getting in his car, I ask, “But what about Quill?”
“Grandpa Will is on his way.”