“I don’t miss him,” I lied. “I miss who I thought he was. But that person doesn’t exist. The real Callan Burkhardt is a man who doesn’t believe in love, who thinks relationships are transactions, who refers to what we shared as ‘just a good time.’”
Just a good time. That’s all it had been to him. A good fuck.
“You know,” Mari said carefully, “there’s nothing wrong with ‘just a good time’ if that’s what you both want. Not everything has to be forever to be worthwhile.”
“That’s not the point,” I sighed, setting down the abused stapler before I broke it. “The point is that he doesn’t believe love exists. At all. As a concept. How could I possibly build anything with someone who thinks the foundation of what I do—of what I believe in—is fiction?”
“And I’ve told you that was a fair point the first one hundred times you said it,” Mari conceded. “Though to play devil’s advocate, which I’m excellent at because I’m basically Satan’s more fashionable sister, he did say those things to his bros. Men say all kinds of stupid shit to their bros that they don’t actually mean.”
“He meant it,” I said flatly. “He’s been consistent about that from day one. I just... I foolishly thought maybe I could be the exception. That maybe with me, he’d see...”
I trailed off, unable to finish the thought without my voice breaking. That was the humiliating truth I’d been avoiding: despite all my professional boundaries, all my carefully constructed walls, I’d started to hope that Callan might change his mind about love. For me. Because of me.
God, I was pathetic.
“You’re not pathetic,” Devonna said, making me realize I’d spoken aloud. “You’re human. And humans hope. It’s what we do.”
“Especially when the human in question has abs you could grate cheese on,” Mari added helpfully. “And a net worth with more zeroes than my dating history.”
“Thank you both for that deeply insightful analysis of my emotional state. Now can we please get back to work? We have the wedding this weekend, and the flower crisis for the one intwo weeks, and the cake disaster for the Albertson’s wedding to manage.”
“Actually,” Devonna said, consulting her tablet, “those have all been handled. Mari took care of the wedding details for this weekend, I resolved the flower situation, and the Albertson’s cake issue was fixed yesterday when you made the baker cry.”
“I did not make her cry,” I protested. “I explained, in detail, why five layers of rum-soaked cake at a dry wedding was inappropriate, especially when the bride’s father is a recovering alcoholic and the groom’s mother is a strict Baptist.”
“You made her cry,” Mari confirmed. “It was magnificent. You said, and I quote, ‘This cake has consumed more alcohol than Lindsay Lohan circa 2007, and unlike Ms. Lohan, it hasn’t even had the decency to check into rehab.’ I recorded it for my personal collection of ‘Anica Destroys People With Facts and Logic.’”
“The point is,” Devonna continued, glaring at Mari, “your schedule is clear for the afternoon. We made sure of it.”
I frowned, instantly suspicious. “Why would you clear my schedule?”
Mari and Devonna exchanged a look that set off all my internal alarm bells.
“What did you two do?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” they replied in unison, which was about as convincing as a groom claiming he didn’t notice the stripper at his bachelor party.
Before I could interrogate them further, the office door swung open, and in walked the last person I expected to see: Vivian Burkhardt, resplendent in a sky-blue pantsuit, with Norbert the butler trailing behind her carrying what appeared to be a basket of baked goods.
“Anica, darling,” she greeted me like a relative rather than a virtual stranger. “So lovely to see you.”
I blinked, momentarily speechless. “Mrs. Burkhardt?—”
“Vivian,” she corrected, kissing both my cheeks as if we were old friends. “Or Gram, if you prefer. I’ve decided to adopt you informally, regardless of your current estrangement from my grandson.”
“That’s... very kind, but unnecessary,” I managed, shooting Mari and Devonna accusatory looks over Vivian’s shoulder. They both suddenly found various ceiling fixtures fascinating.
“Nonsense,” Vivian waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve been wanting a granddaughter for years, and you’re perfect. Smart, capable, and you don’t put up with Callan’s nonsense. Norbert, the muffins, please.”
Norbert stepped forward, presenting the basket. “Blueberry streusel. Madam made them this morning.”
“Thank you, Norbert,” Vivian said, taking the basket and offering it to me. “Peace offering. I understand my grandson has been spectacularly idiotic, and while I can’t apologize for him, he’s a grown man who needs to grovel properly on his own, I can at least bring baked goods and sympathy.”
“That’s... thank you,” I said, accepting the basket. The smell of fresh muffins wafted up, making my stomach growl. I hadn’t had much of an appetite lately.
“Shall we?” Vivian gestured to my office. “Somewhere private for a chat?”
I nodded, leading her in and closing the door behind us. Vivian settled into the chair across from my desk, smoothing her pantsuit as if it might dare to wrinkle in her presence.
