“I’m not putting myself anywhere near this list,” I said firmly, ignoring the tiny, traitorous part of me that had already calculated my own compatibility score with Callan. (67.4%, which was concerning given how much I disliked him. Apparently, my spreadsheet had a thing for blue eyes and financial stability.) “And before you ask, neither of you are getting on this list either.”
Three hours later, I had created a comprehensive PowerPoint presentation, complete with timeline, potential candidate profiles (anonymized, of course), and a detailed action plan. It was possibly the most thorough, most ridiculous document I’d ever produced, and I’d once created a twenty-page contingency plan for a hurricane-threatened beach wedding that included evacuation routes and emergency raccoon removal procedures.
As I put the finishing touches on a particularly satisfying Gantt chart, I felt a strange sense of accomplishment. If Callan Burkhardt thought he could rattle me with his unorthodox request, he was sorely mistaken. I was Anica Marcel, wedding planning extraordinaire. I could plan anything, even a wedding for a man without a bride.
Now I just had to ignore the voice in my head warning me that while I might be able to plan the perfect wedding, dealing with Callan Burkhardt himself would be the real challenge.
And that was before factoring in the unwelcome flutter I’d felt when he smiled at me—a reaction I attributed entirely to sleep deprivation and possibly a mild coffee overdose, and absolutely not to the way his voice dropped slightly when he’d called my ex an idiot, or how his fingers had lingered on mine when he handed back the questionnaire, or the brief moment when I’d caught him watching me with an expression that wasn’t smug or arrogant but genuinely curious.
Professional. This was strictly professional. And it would stay that way, no matter how good he looked in that suit or how intriguing his rare moments of genuine humanity might be.
After all, I’d learned my lesson about mixing business with pleasure.
I wasn’t about to make that mistake again. Even for a billionaire with a smile that could power the Manhattan skyline and a butt that, as Mari so eloquently put it, deserved its own Forbes profile.
CHAPTER 4
Sure, Blame The Ducks
CALLAN
Iwas running late on purpose.
Some people might call it childish, but I preferred to think of it as strategic. After all, I didn’t become a billionaire by playing by other people’s rules. And showing up exactly when expected was decidedly boring.
Besides, there was something entertaining about imagining Anica Marcel standing outside the Rhodes Estate, checking her watch every thirty seconds with increasing irritation. Her perfect posture growing more rigid by the minute, those full lips pressing into that thin line they formed when she was annoyed.
Not that I’d been cataloging her expressions.
I glanced at the dashboard clock: 6:31 AM. I was officially thirty-one minutes late. Perfect timing. Long enough to be irritating but not quite long enough for her to give up and leave. I downshifted my Aston Martin and turned onto the long, tree-lined drive that led to the estate. The familiar mix of nostalgia and discomfort I always experienced when visiting this place made me grin like I had as a little boy in the same place.
The Rhodes Estate sat on fifty acres of pristine countryside about an hour outside Manhattan; close enough for convenience but far enough to feel like an escape. The sprawling Georgianmansion with its immaculate gardens had been a wedding venue for the elite since the 1950s. My grandmother had gotten married here long before I’d made my first million, a fact she reminded me of approximately every third conversation. She liked to remind me that she did fine before I started to provide for her, but she also didn’t complain about the house I’d bought her.
I spotted Anica immediately, standing by the stone fountain at the entrance. She wore a sleek navy dress that hugged curves I’d definitely been thinking about since our last meeting. Her dark hair was twisted into some complicated updo that exposed the elegant line of her neck. Even from a distance, her body language screamed “planning a homicide.”
I parked directly in front of her rather than in the designated lot, watching with satisfaction as her eyebrow twitched. When the valet approached, I handed him my keys with instructions to “keep it close. We might need to make a quick getaway if the wedding planner decides to weaponize her clipboard.”
“You’re late,” she said as I stepped out of the car, not bothering with a greeting.
“Traffic was terrible,” I replied, offering her one of the coffee cups I’d had Erika arrange from that ridiculously expensive place in SoHo. Oat milk latte, double shot, with a dash of cinnamon. No sugar. The fact that I remembered her exact order fueled the smirk on my face.
“It’s 6 AM,” she countered, accepting the coffee with visible reluctance. “The only traffic was the ducks crossing at the park.”
“Vicious creatures. Completely disregarded my right of way.” I adjusted my cuffs with exaggerated seriousness. “One of them made direct eye contact while deliberately slowing down. I’m pretty sure it was personal.”
A fleeting smile crossed her face before she suppressed it. “Did you challenge it to a duel at dawn?”
“I considered it, but the duck had the tactical advantage. Very low center of gravity.”
She took a sip of coffee, and there it was—the slight widening of her eyes, the almost imperceptible relaxation of her shoulders. “It’s cold,” she lied, taking another long sip.
“Probably the ice in your veins cooling it down,” I replied cheerfully. “Shall we? I believe Ms. Windsor is already calculating how many minutes of tardiness translate to years in etiquette purgatory.”
Anica looked stunning in the morning light, her skin practically glowing against the dark fabric of her dress. As she turned to walk toward the entrance, I allowed myself a moment to appreciate the view. Her dress wasn’t particularly revealing, but it didn’t need to be. It hugged her curves with the reverence of a Renaissance sculptor discovering marble for the first time. And when she glanced back at me with narrowed eyes, I couldn’t help but notice how the sunlight caught the fullness of her lips and the gentle swell of her chest as she took an irritated breath.
God, she probably rocked a bikini. I needed to find a way to get her to my island to test that theory.
“Are you coming, or would you prefer to waste more time?” she called back, clearly catching me in my appraisal.
