“Speaking of sex,” Mari said, making herself comfortable by sitting directly on top of my “Potential” pile, “when are youplanning to climb Mount Burkhardt? I’ve started a betting pool with the caterers from the Jonas wedding. I’ve got fifty bucks on ‘within two weeks but only after a screaming match.’”
“You did not start a betting pool,” I said, horrified.
“You’re right.” She nodded solemnly. “It’s actually seventy-five dollars, and Devonna’s in charge of the spreadsheet.”
On cue, Devonna appeared in the doorway, tablet clutched to her chest like always. But unlike her usual anxious demeanor, she had a dreamy, distant look in her eyes.
“Mr. Burkhardt’s assistant called,” she announced. “He’ll be here in approximately forty minutes.”
“He’s not due for another hour,” I noted, checking my watch.
“Yes, but he mentioned he’s running early today, which according to my calculations, means he’ll arrive twenty minutes late instead of his usual thirty to forty-five.” She adjusted her glasses. Her cheeks were flushed. “I’ve prepared the good coffee and arranged the almond pastries he mentioned liking last time.”
Mari and I exchanged looks.
“Devonna,” I said carefully, “did you buy special pastries just for Callan?”
“Of course not. I simply noticed that they happened to be on sale, and they pair nicely with our Ethiopian roast, which I also happened to purchase this morning from that specialty shop seventeen blocks away that doesn’t deliver.”
“Uh-huh,” Mari said, grinning. “And does this specialty shop happen to be directly across the street from that gym where a certain billionaire has been photographed leaving with his shirt stuck to his abs?”
Devonna’s flush deepened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m simply maintaining appropriate client relations.”
“I’d like to maintain relations with his?—”
“Mari!” I cut her off. “Please remember this is a professional workplace.”
“Says the woman who’s turned our conference room into a vision board for her billionaire fantasy wedding,” she retorted.
“It’s not—that’s not what this is,” I spluttered, gesturing to the profiles. “I’ve spent the past week compiling the most comprehensive database of eligible Manhattan socialites ever assembled outside of a dating app headquarters. Each candidate has been thoroughly vetted through social media, mutual connections, and in some cases, discreet background checks courtesy of Devonna’s mysterious ‘boyfriend who does security work.’”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Devonna muttered. “We just occasionally exchange information and bodily fluids.”
Mari and I both froze, staring at her.
“What?” she asked innocently. “I’m an adult woman with needs that occasionally include having my back blown out by a former Navy SEAL who now runs background checks.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my assistant?” I demanded, genuinely shocked.
Devonna adjusted her glasses again and shrugged, returning to her usual demeanor. “I’ve organized the candidate files as requested. The top three have been highlighted and placed on your desk, with Destiny Gitwieler as the primary recommendation. I’ve also taken the liberty of pressing your blue dress for tonight’s dinner observation, as blue appears to be the color Mr. Burkhardt responds to most favorably based on my analysis of his past female companions.”
“You’ve been analyzing his... Wait, how do you even know I’m wearing blue tonight?”
“You’ve touched every blue item in your closet at least twice this week while sighing,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Andyou’ve been staring at photos of him approximately 34% longer than is strictly necessary for professional assessment.”
“I have not!” I protested, heat rising to my cheeks.
“Your pupils dilate an average of 2.7 millimeters when he enters a room,” she continued, as if reciting from a scientific journal. “And you’ve started wearing matching underwear to work despite having no logical reason to do so.”
Mari howled with laughter while I stood there, mortified and impressed in equal measure.
“How do you know about my underwear?” I finally managed.
“You don’t squat down like a lady. You bend over and show the world your fancy underwear,” Devonna shrugged again. “La Perla doesn’t manufacture practical cotton briefs, Anica.”
“Have you considered that this might be slightly...” Mari searched for the right word, tilting her head at the wall of faces, “...psychotic? And I mean that as the highest compliment, because I am here for this level of unhinged dedication.”
“I prefer ‘methodical,’” I corrected, adding another sticky note to the hedge fund manager’s profile. “This is a million-dollar contract. I’m being thorough.”
