“So heisa potential client now?” Mari pounced on my slip with the ferocity of a sample sale shopper spotting the last discounted Prada bag. “I knew you were considering it!”
“I’m not—” I stopped, sighing. “It’s morally reprehensible and completely against everything we stand for.”
“Morals don’t pay for that downtown storefront you’ve been eyeing. They don’t pay Devonna’s salary or the rent increase our landlord just hit us with. And they definitely don’t pay for the new spring collection at Saks that I’ve already charged tomy card.” She grabbed my shoulders. “Do you know what does pay for those things? Billionaires with commitment issues and excellent bone structure.”
I closed my eyes, my resolve weakening despite myself. The worst part was, she wasn’t wrong. We were doing okay, but “okay” didn’t build empires. It didn’t secure our future or allow us to expand. It just kept us treading water in an industry where the big fish regularly swallowed the small ones.
“Look,” Mari said, her voice softening. “I get it. It’s weird. But maybe we could see it as... I don’t know, a challenge? The ultimate wedding planning test? If we can pull this off, we can handle anything.”
“It feels like selling out,” I admitted.
“It’s not selling out if it funds your dreams.” She squeezed my arm. “Just think about it, okay? That’s all I’m asking. Think about it while staring directly at his face, which was clearly sculpted by Michelangelo during a particularly inspired period.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
When we emerged from the closet, Callan was examining our vision board; a massive collage of wedding inspiration, business goals, and the occasional motivational quote that Mari insisted kept our “entrepreneurial chakras aligned,” whatever that meant.
“Fascinating,” he said, pointing to a photo of the downtown storefront we’d been coveting. “This space has been vacant for nearly a year. The owner is holding out for a specific type of tenant. Someone with... prestige.”
Of course he knew about the storefront. He probably had files on our favorite coffee orders and preferred brands of toilet paper too. Possibly our menstrual cycles and exact measurements. I made a mental note to sweep the office for bugs later, though I wouldn’t put it past him to have developed microscopic drones disguised as dust particles.
“Mr. Burkhardt,” I began, steeling myself. “Your offer is extremely generous.”
“But?” he prompted, turning to face me with those unfairly blue eyes. Eyes that should come with their own warning label: CAUTION: Prolonged exposure may cause common sense failure and spontaneous underwear combustion.
“But I need to establish some terms.”
Mari made a small, triumphant noise behind me that sounded disturbingly like “cha-ching.”
“I’m listening,” Callan said, looking intrigued rather than victorious, which somehow annoyed me more.
“First, this will be a strictly professional relationship. No inappropriate comments, no innuendos, no... whatever that was in your office last night.”
“My devastating charm?” he suggested with a smirk that made something low in my abdomen do a completely unauthorized backflip.
“Your harassment-adjacent behavior,” I corrected. “Second, I won’t lie to vendors or clients about the nature of this arrangement, but I will be discreet. No public statements about planning a wedding without a bride.”
“Agreed.”
“Third, I maintain complete creative control. If you hire me for my expertise, you need to trust it.”
“Within reason,” he countered.
“Within the bounds of good taste and what’s logistically possible,” I clarified.
“Fair enough.”
“Fourth, this is a limited engagement. Once the wedding is planned and executed—assuming you find someone willing to marry you despite your personality—our business relationship concludes. No ongoing obligations.”
“Except for my grandmother’s gala,” he reminded me. “And the investment would be ongoing.”
“We can negotiate those separately. I’m talking about the wedding planning contract.”
“Agreed,” he said again. I was annoyed for some reason at how easily he was accepting my terms. Either he was the most reasonable billionaire in history, or he was already plotting ways around them.
I was betting on the latter.
“Do we have a deal, Ms. Marcel?” He extended his hand, and I had the distinct impression I was making a deal with the devil. A very attractive, coffee-bringing devil in a suit that was clearly made to fit him like a second, sexy skin.
