“Gentlemen,” he greeted the three faces that appeared on screen. “Meet my wedding planner and temporary fiancée, Anica Marcel.”
I froze, equal parts mortified and furious. “Temporary what now?”
The three men on screen erupted in varying expressions of surprise and amusement.
“Holy shit, you actually found someone?” said a dark-haired man with a perpetual smirk. “Did you have to pay extra for the ‘pretend to tolerate you’ package?”
“Ignore Kris,” said another man, this one with kind eyes and a relaxed demeanor. “He’s still bitter his wife implemented a swear jar. I’m Chance. Nice to meet you, Anica.”
“And I’m Morgan,” added the third, who looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “Are you actually marrying him? Blink twice if you’re being held against your will. We can send an extraction team.”
“She’s not actually marrying me,” Callan clarified, as I stood there trying to process the ambush. “She’s my wedding planner who’s helping me win our bet. Though we are temporarily engaged at the Rhodes Estate to secure the venue.”
“Trespassing into new territory of assholery, even for you,” Kris commented. “Impressive.”
“It’s strategic improvisation,’” Callan replied. “And it worked.”
I finally found my voice. “I’m not his fiancée,” I clarified. “I’m a professional who was coerced into a charade that I’m still considering legal action for.”
“She’s warming up to me,” Callan stage-whispered.
“Clearly. The murder in her eyes must just be how she shows affection,” Morgan said.
“So where are you in the process?” Chance asked, the only one who seemed actually interested in the bet rather than mocking Callan. “Found any potential brides yet?”
Callan gestured to my wall. “Anica has compiled the most comprehensive dating database in Manhattan. We’re reviewing candidates today.”
Kris leaned forward, squinting at the screen. “Is that... a murder wall of women? Are you sure you hired a wedding planner and not a very organized serial killer?”
“It’s a strategic visualization of potential matches,” I said, lifting my chin.
“Same thing,” Morgan quipped. “I’m concerned and impressed.”
“Just give us the stats,” Chance said. “How many candidates? What’s the timeline? I need to know if I should start shopping for a wedding gift or preparing my ‘I told you so’ speech.”
“Thirty candidates, ten front-runners, first meeting tonight,” Callan reported with the confidence of someone who hadn’t rejected my entire methodology five minutes earlier. “And you should definitely shop for a gift. Something expensive.”
“I still say it’s impossible,” Kris shook his head. “No sane woman would marry you knowing it’s for a bet.”
“You underestimate my charm,” Callan replied.
“And you underestimate women’s intelligence,” I muttered, earning a snort of laughter from Morgan.
“I like her,” he declared. “She sees through your bullshit.”
“Shouldn’t you be stress-vomiting about your own wedding instead of concerning yourself with mine?” Callan shot back.
Morgan’s face paled. “Just because I occasionally question if marriage is a societal construct designed to torture men doesn’t mean I’m not excited about my wedding.”
“He threw up twice during the menu tasting,” Kris informed us. “The chef thought it was a commentary on his cooking.”
“As fascinating as this fraternity reunion is,” I interrupted, “we have actual work to do. If you’ll excuse us...”
“She’s bossy,” Kris observed. “No wonder you hired her.”
“I hired her because she’s the best,” Callan said, with sincerity that momentarily caught me off guard. “And she’s right. We need to prep for tonight’s meeting.”
“Meeting with who?” Chance asked.
