I was adjusting the last profile when the conference room door swung open, revealing the man himself an hour early, defying even Devonna’s calculations.
Callan leaned against the doorframe, taking in the scene with raised eyebrows. He wore dark jeans and a navy cashmere sweater, his hair slightly rumpled as if he’d been runninghis hands through it. He looked like he’d just walked off a “Billionaires at Leisure” photoshoot and directly into my increasingly complicated fantasy life.
“Should I be flattered or terrified?” he asked, gesturing to the walls. “This is either the most thorough dating service I’ve ever seen or the beginnings of a true crime documentary. ‘The Wedding Planner: From Bouquets to Body Bags.’”
“That seems to be the consensus,” I replied, refusing to show how his sudden appearance had flustered me. “Though I was hoping for ‘impressed.’”
“Oh, I’m definitely impressed,” he said, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him. “This is next-level organization. I’m pretty sure my security team doesn’t have this much intel on potential threats.”
“Some might say a wife is the ultimate security threat,” I quipped, immediately regretting the joke when his eyes crinkled with amusement.
“Speaking from experience, Ms. Marcel?” He approached the wall, studying the photos and notes with genuine interest. “Or is this a warning?”
“Neither. Just an observation based on the dozens of mother-in-law horror stories I’ve collected over the years.” I moved to stand beside him, careful to maintain a professional distance. “I’ve narrowed it down to thirty candidates who meet your basic criteria, with a top ten I’d recommend for initial meetings.”
He studied the wall in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned to me with that infuriating half-smile. “You’ve categorized these women all wrong.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Your categories,” he gestured to my organized wall. “They’re all wrong.”
After a week of sixteen-hour days, background checks, and enough coffee to give a rhino heart palpitations, that was not what I wanted to hear.
“Well, you categorized your ‘non-negotiables’ as—and I quote—‘nice rack’ and ‘doesn’t talk during sports,’” I replied, crossing my arms. “So forgive me if I took some interpretive liberties.”
To my surprise, he laughed. “Fair point. My initial criteria were... superficial.”
“Superficial is putting it kindly. Neanderthalic would be more accurate. Though I notice you haven’t actually disagreed with those particular requirements.”
“Would it help if I said I’ve evolved since then?” He moved closer to the board, examining the details I’d compiled. “Though evolution apparently means being matched with Manhattan’s most polished gold-diggers.”
“These women are accomplished professionals,” I corrected. “CEOs, attorneys, philanthropists?—”
“Who are conveniently single and open to marrying a billionaire on short notice,” he finished. “Come on, Anica. You’re smarter than this.”
The casual use of my first name sent an unwelcome tingle down my spine. “It’s Ms. Marcel. And given your parameters, these are the most suitable candidates. Unless you’ve decided to modify your requirements?”
He turned to face me. “I’m adding a new parameter: authenticity.”
“Authenticity,” I repeated flatly. “That’s rather vague for a man who specifically requested, and again I quote, ‘ass you could bounce a quarter off of.’”
“I’m a complex man with evolving standards,” he replied with that smirk that made me want to either slap him or... other things I absolutely should not have been considering. “Iwant someone real. Someone who sees me as more than a bank account with abs.”
“So you want a unicorn,” I translated. “A beautiful, accomplished woman who doesn’t care about your money, is willing to enter a marriage of convenience in less than three months, and has the patience of a saint to deal with your ego.”
“Precisely,” he agreed cheerfully. “I knew you understood me.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache forming. “Mr. Burkhardt?—”
“Callan,” he corrected.
“Mr. Burkhardt,” I repeated. “Finding someone who matches all your criteria was already like searching for a needle in a haystack. Adding ‘doesn’t care about your billions’ is like specifying the needle must also be made of cheese.”
“I love cheese. And I love challenges,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t you?”
Before I could respond, his phone ran. He glanced at it and grinned. “Perfect timing. The peanut gallery wants to check in.”
Without waiting for my permission, he answered the video call and propped his phone against my whiteboard.
