Strictly professional, I reminded myself firmly. This was strictly professional.
But as I returned to the women’s profiles, I mentally reviewed my closet for something blue to wear that night, and firmly ignoring Mari’s voice in my head singing “I told you so.”
Le Bernardin was exactly as intimidating as its three Michelin stars suggested. All sleek surfaces, hushed conversations, and waitstaff who moved like professional ballerinas. I arrived thirty minutes early, as was my habit for all important events, and wasescorted to a small table with a perfect view of where Callan and Destiny would be seated.
I wore a midnight blue dress that I told myself I’d chosen for its professional cut rather than because Callan had suggested the color. My hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon, and I’d limited my jewelry to simple pearl earrings that had been my mother’s. The goal was to be invisible. Just another diner enjoying an overpriced meal while coincidentally observing the table eight feet away.
Destiny arrived exactly on time, looking every inch the polished socialite in a designer dress. Her dark hair was styled in elegant waves, her makeup flawless but understated. She was, objectively speaking, stunning.
She was also alone, because Callan was late. Again.
She checked her watch, took a small sip of water, and maintained a pleasant expression despite the passing minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.
I was about to text him a strongly worded message when he finally appeared, and my irritation immediately transformed into a different kind of discomfort.
He wasn’t wearing a suit.
Despite my explicit instructions, Callan had arrived at one of New York’s most exclusive restaurants in dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt that molded to his shoulders and chest that gave away way too much information for the anatomy beneath. The damn man was pure muscle. The maître d’ didn’t even blink. Evidently billionaires operated under different dress codes than mere mortals.
What was most infuriating was that he somehow pulled it off, looking more compelling than the men in bespoke suits at neighboring tables. The casual attire highlighted his athletic build in a way that made several women openly stare as he crossed the restaurant.
Including, I realized with horror, me.
I quickly averted my gaze, pretending to study the menu as if the price of Dover sole was the most fascinating thing I’d ever encountered. When I dared look up again, he was greeting Destiny with an apologetic smile and that particular brand of charisma that made people forget they were supposed to be annoyed with him.
I couldn’t hear their conversation from my position, but I could observe their body language. Destiny was clearly charmed despite his tardiness and inappropriate attire, leaning forward slightly and laughing at something he said. Callan was... harder to read. He smiled and maintained eye contact, asked questions that made her animate in response, but something about his posture suggested he wasn’t fully engaged.
Their appetizers arrived, and I forced myself to at least pretend to eat my own meal while keeping an eye on their interaction. Things seemed to be going well, until suddenly Destiny’s expression shifted from warm engagement to shock, then barely concealed outrage.
I couldn’t hear what Callan had said, but based on Destiny’s face, it was wildly inappropriate. She recovered quickly, her social training evidently kicking in, but the warmth had vanished from her expression.
The rest of the meal continued in increasingly strained politeness. By dessert, they were essentially two strangers occupying the same table, with Destiny checking her phone with increasing frequency and Callan looking completely unbothered by the deterioration of what should have been a promising match.
When they finally parted ways outside the restaurant—Destiny leaving in a black sedan with a perfunctory air kiss that didn’t come within six inches of Callan’s cheek—I was seething.I waited until her car had disappeared into traffic before approaching him.
“What the hell was that?” I demanded, not caring that we were standing in front of one of New York’s most prestigious restaurants.
“Dinner,” he replied, shrugging. “Excellent sea bass, though the wine pairing was a bit conventional.”
“You know what I mean,” I said, lowering my voice as a couple passed us. “You deliberately sabotaged that meeting. Destiny was perfect.”
“On paper,” he agreed. “In person, not so much.”
“She’s intelligent, accomplished, beautiful?—”
“And exclusively interested in my net worth,” he finished. “Did you know her first three questions were about my investment portfolio, my real estate holdings, and whether I had a prenup requirement?”
That gave me pause. “She’s financially minded. It’s her background.”
“She’s a gold digger with an MBA,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“So you decided to torpedo any chance by saying, what, exactly? What did you say that made her look like she’d swallowed a lemon?”
He glanced down, suddenly fascinated by his shoes. “I may have asked about her sexual preferences. In somewhat explicit terms.”
“You what?” I nearly screeched, then lowered my voice again when a passing woman gave us a concerned look. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I needed to test her authenticity,” he said, as if this were a perfectly reasonable explanation. “I wanted to see if she was interested in me as a person or just as a bank account.”
