“Uh-huh,” Mari said skeptically, picking up a photo of a willowy blonde and pretending to make out with it. “And the fact that you’ve spent more time on this than you did planning the Burgis-Schmidt wedding—which, may I remind you, included a live elephant and that ice sculpture that accidentally looked phallic when it started melting—has nothing to do with your growing obsession with our favorite billionaire?”
“I am not obsessed with Callan Burkhardt,” I snapped, immediately regretting the defensive tone. “I’m obsessed with winning. With proving I can pull off the impossible.”
“Right. That’s why you’ve rejected fourteen perfectly suitable women because”—she picked up my notes and read in a mocking voice—“‘laugh is too high-pitched,’ ‘probably wears scrunchiesunironically,’ ‘gives off clingy energy,’ and my personal favorite, ‘boobs too similar to mine.’”
I snatched the notes back, my face burning. “I never wrote that last one!”
“No, but you thought it,” Mari said smugly. “I saw you comparing chest sizes yesterday.”
“I was assessing overall proportions for formal wear compatibility,” I insisted. It sounded ridiculous.
“Mmm-hmm. And you’d know because you’ve spent so much time analyzing his preferences? Or because you’ve spent so much time analyzing him? Don’t think I didn’t notice you replaying that video where he emerges from the pool at the Hamptons charity event. Eleven times, Anica. I counted.”
“It was research,” I said, straightening a pile of profiles. “He needs someone who can match his... intensity.”
“Oh, I bet you could match his intensity,” Mari waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Preferably horizontally. Or vertically against a wall. I’m not picky about the orientation, just the action. Though personally, I’d recommend starting with a solid sixty-nine, because that man’s jawline was designed by God himself for?—”
“You’re disgusting,” I informed her, ignoring the flush creeping up my neck. “And inappropriate. And fired from this project.”
“You can’t fire me. I’m your business partner and emotional support animal.” She hopped onto the table, scattering my carefully arranged piles. “Besides, someone needs to be here to witness the sexual tension when he arrives. It’s like watching National Geographic, but instead of lions mating, it’s an uptight perfectionist and a Greek god incarnate pretending they don’t want to rip each other’s clothes off.”
Devonna cleared her throat. “Mr. Burkhardt’s car just pulled up outside. He appears to be seventeen minutes early for his scheduled late arrival.”
Mari and I both stared at her.
“I installed a small alert system,” she explained with a shrug. “It notifies me when his vehicle is within fifty feet of our building.”
“That’s... definitely illegal,” I said slowly.
“Only in fourteen states,” she replied. “And I’ve calculated that the financial benefit of advanced preparation outweighs the minimal legal risk.”
“Whoareyou?” Mari asked, clearly impressed.
“I appreciate efficiency and good bone structure,” Devonna replied, smoothing her already-immaculate blouse. “And Mr. Burkhardt has exceptional bone structure. Among other things.”
“My god, he’s infected both of you,” I muttered. “Is there anyone in this office who can maintain professional boundaries?”
“Professional boundaries are for people who don’t have the opportunity to marry billionaires,” Mari declared, sliding off the table. “Speaking of which, I need to freshen up before he arrives. I’m wearing my special occasion bra. The one with the front clasp that can be undone with teeth.”
“Why would he be undoing your bra with his teeth?” I demanded.
Mari’s grin was positively feline. “He wouldn’t be. But a girl can dream. And prepare. And possibly accidentally bump into him in a way that requires him to steady me with his enormous hands on my ass. God, do you think his hands are any indication of his dick? Or is that feet? Devonna, what size shoe does he wear?”
“Size 13 in US sizes. In European sizes that’s–”
“Out,” I ordered, pointing to the door. “Both of you. I need five minutes of sanity before he arrives.”
“Fine, but remember—” Mari paused at the doorway, “—if you don’t climb that man like a tree soon, I will. And I’ll take detailed notes for posterity.”
I glanced at Devonna, expecting her to be horrified by Mari’s crassness, but she was nodding thoughtfully. “I’ve already prepared a mood board,” she admitted. “With categories for technique, duration, and... creativity.”
“Out!” I repeated, nearly shrieking.
Once alone, I surveyed the room with a critical eye. Was it too much? Probably. But Callan had made it clear he wanted results, and this was how I delivered results, with meticulous research, careful analysis, and an attention to detail that bordered on pathological.
The fact that the process had given me an encyclopedic knowledge of his preferences, habits, and history was purely professional. The fact that I now knew he preferred brunettes who challenged him intellectually, donated to education-focused charities, and could hold their own in any social situation was simply due diligence. The fact that I’d watched eighteen interviews with him to analyze his conversation patterns and humor style was thorough research.
And the fact that I’d caught myself wondering more than once what it would be like to be the woman who actually captured his interest? That was... a professional hazard. Nothing more.
