“Everything looks wonderful,” I said, checking my watch again. Callan was only ten minutes late, which for him was practically early. Progress. “My client should be here any?—”
“Sorry I’m late.”
I turned to find Callan filling the doorway, dressed in dark jeans and a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. Why did forearms have to be so unnecessarily appealing? They’re just arms. There was nothing inherently sexual about the radius and ulna bones, yet here I was, staring at them like they were performing an exotic dance with a side of “come hither” thrown in. My libido needed a serious talking-to later.
“Traffic or ducks?” I asked, managing to drag my gaze upward.
“Traffic, actually.” He looked almost sheepish. “There was a group of protestors blocking Fifth Avenue. Something about tax breaks for the wealthy. I might have been one of the people they were protesting.”
“How inconvenient when the peasants revolt during rush hour,” I said dryly. “Next time maybe check the ‘Eat The Rich’ forecast before leaving home.”
He grinned, unoffended. “I always keep cake-tasting appointments. Priorities. Besides, cake is the one thing Marie Antoinette and I have in common, though I’m hoping for a better outcome.”
“At least your head looks good on your shoulders,” I said, immediately regretting the words.
“Why, Ms. Marcel, was that almost a compliment?”
“It was an anatomical observation,” I corrected. “Like noting that water is wet or that billionaires are chronically late.”
Eloise’s eyes widened as she recognized him. “Mr. Burkhardt! Such an honor. I didn’t realize you were her groom.”
“Not my groom,” I corrected quickly. “Mr. Burkhardt is my client.”
“I’m marrying someone else,” Callan explained. “Ms. Marcel is my wedding planner.”
“Oh!” Eloise looked confused. “I assumed since it was just the two of you...”
“The bride is... busy,” Callan said with a casual wave of his hand.
“She’s got other obligations today,” I clarified. “But she trusts his judgment.”
“She’s a peach,” Callan added cheerfully.
To Eloise’s credit, her professional smile never faltered, though her eyebrows had climbed halfway up her forehead. “How... lovely. Well, shall we begin? I’ve prepared eight flavor combinations for you to consider.”
As Callan took the seat opposite me, I realized just how small the table was. Our knees bumped, and he murmured an apology as he adjusted his long legs. The table was clearly designed for couples who enjoyed being close enough to share breath. Not for wedding planners trying to maintain professional boundaries with irritatingly attractive clients whose cologne smelled like it had been harvested from the garden of Eden and distilled with success.
“Let’s approach this systematically,” I said, perhaps too loudly. “Start with the vanilla baseline, then move to more complex flavors.”
“An excellent strategy,” Eloise agreed, placing two plates before us. “We’ll begin with our classic Tahitian vanilla bean with Swiss meringue buttercream.”
I reached for my cake fork at the exact moment Callan reached for his, our fingers brushing. I jerked my hand back,knocking over my water glass. Water splashed across the table, narrowly missing the cake samples but thoroughly soaking Callan’s sleeve.
“I am so sorry,” I blurted, grabbing napkins to mop up the spill.
“No harm done,” Callan assured me, quickly helping to clean up. “Jumpy today?” he added with a raised eyebrow when I glared at him.
“Adequately caffeinated,” I replied, which wasn’t a lie. I’d had three espressos just to prepare myself for another hour in his presence. “Anything less than four shots of espresso and I might accidentally enjoy your company.”
“I have that effect on people,” he said with a wink. “Fully conscious women find me irresistible.”
“Fully delusional men often think that,” I shot back, finally reclaiming my composure.
Once the mess was cleaned up, we turned our attention to the cakes. I was determined to be nothing but professional, despite the way his knee kept brushing against mine under the tiny table. I took a bite of the vanilla cake, letting the subtle flavors melt on my tongue.
“Perfect proportion of frosting to cake,” I noted, making a mark on my evaluation sheet. I’d created a rating system for each cake with categories for texture, flavor balance, and visual appeal. “Excellent crumb structure.”
Callan took a bite, considering it thoughtfully. “It’s good, but too safe. Wedding cakes should be memorable.”
