I glanced at Mari, who was nodding so vigorously she resembled one of those dashboard bobbleheads. Then at Devonna, who was trying to appear professional while clearly calculating how a million-dollar contract would affect her upcoming vacation plans and also blatantly staring at Callan’s ass with an expression that suggested she was mentally removing his trousers. Possibly with her teeth.
“Against every ounce of better judgment I possess... yes.” I shook his hand, ignoring the voice in my head screaming that this was a terrible idea, possibly the worst since that time in college when Mari convinced me that cutting my own bangs at 3 AM after four vodka sodas was “empowering.” I’d ended up looking like a regretful toddler with safety scissors and a grudge against her own forehead.
“Excellent.” Callan’s smile was so triumphant I immediately wanted to rescind my agreement out of spite. And also because his smile did alarming things to my internal organs, things that felt distinctly unprofessional and dangerously close to attraction. Which was ridiculous. I wasn’t attracted to arrogantbillionaires with god complexes, no matter how well they filled out a suit or how symmetrical their facial features might be.
“When do we start?” he asked, his thumb brushing over my knuckles before releasing my hand. The touch sent an electric current up my arm that I immediately filed under “static electricity” and “definitely not sexual chemistry.”
“Right now,” I said, moving to my desk with more speed than dignity. I pulled out the client questionnaire I gave to all couples, a comprehensive twelve-page document that I’d refined over years of experience. “Fill this out. All of it.”
He accepted the packet with raised eyebrows. “Homework on the first day?”
“Planning a wedding requires information, Mr. Burkhardt. Lots of it.” I handed him a pen. “I need to understand your preferences, deal-breakers, and vision for the day.”
“My vision is ‘expensive and impressive,’ anything that will make the guys jealous,” he said, flipping through the pages with growing amusement. “Do I really need to specify whether I prefer buttercream or fondant when I don’t even have a bride yet?”
“Yes. Because regardless of who your bride is, the wedding needs to reflect you as well. Unless you plan to be a silent partner in your own marriage, which, given your personality, seems unlikely.”
He laughed. It was genuine and annoyingly appealing. “Fair point. I’ll complete your interrogation packet.”
“Thank you. And we’ll need to schedule a venue visit as soon as possible. You mentioned the Rhodes Estate. It books up years in advance.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said dismissively. “We’ll get a date.”
I stared at him. “Money doesn’t buy everything, Mr. Burkhardt. Especially not the most exclusive, sought-afterwedding venue in the tri-state area, with a three-year waiting list and a rumored connection to actual royalty.”
“You’d be surprised Ms. Marcel. If you’ll make the arrangement, we’ll go see the venue this week.”
“Fine, I’ll make the call.”
“Good.” He settled into a chair and began filling out the questionnaire, looking entirely too comfortable in our modest office. “By the way, what’s your coffee order? This was just a guess.”
I looked down at the untouched cup he’d brought me. “Why?”
“Professional curiosity. If we’re going to be working closely together for the next three months, I should know how you take your coffee.”
“We’re not going to be working that closely,” I corrected, though my traitorous brain immediately conjured an image of exactly how closely we could work, possibly on a desk, definitely with fewer clothes. I mentally forced it back into professional mode. “And my coffee preferences aren’t relevant to planning your wedding.”
“Humor me.”
I sighed. “Oat milk latte, double shot, with a dash of cinnamon. No sugar.”
He nodded, looking oddly satisfied. “I was close. I went with almond milk.”
“Fascinating,” I deadpanned. “Now please fill out the questionnaire while I call the Rhodes Estate to begin arrangements.”
“Of course.” He returned to the questionnaire, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your process.”
Somehow, I doubted that very much.
I spent the next hour trying to work on other client matters while hyper-aware of Callan’s presence. He filled out the questionnaire, occasionally chuckling or raising an eyebrow at certain questions.
Mari, meanwhile, made approximately eighteen unnecessary trips to the copier, each time finding a new angle from which to ogle Callan. By trip twelve, she’d abandoned all pretense and was essentially doing a slow lap around his chair while pretending to organize file folders.
Devonna wasn’t much better. She’d reapplied her lip gloss three times and somehow found reasons to ask Callan if he needed anything every four minutes. The last time, she’d actually asked if his pen was “performing satisfactorily” in a voice usually reserved for phone sex operators.
I was about to suggest they both take an early lunch—possibly in Antarctica—when Callan finally handed the questionnaire back to me.
I was almost afraid to look.
