“I see you missed your calling as a tabloid headline writer,” he said.
“It was my backup career if wedding planning fell through. ‘Planner Plots Perfect Prenup’ didn’t have the same ring to it.”
He laughed again, and I laughed with him. For a moment, we weren’t client and wedding planner, just two people enjoying each other’s company. It was... nice. Dangerous, but nice.
Eloise continued bringing samples, and we fell into a comfortable rhythm of tasting and discussing. Callan’s expertise was genuine, and I deferred to his opinion on several flavor combinations. It was oddly refreshing to not be the expert for once. It also meant I didn’t have to eat as much cake. God, I hated cake tastings. Why did everyone want cake at their receptions? Cake was inferior to well-made cookies in my expert opinion. And I’d trieda lotof cakes.
“So,” he said as we waited for Eloise to get the final round of samples from the back kitchen, “have you narrowed down the next batch of bride candidates? After the Destiny disaster?”
And just like that, reality crashed back. Right. The bride hunt. The whole reason we were sitting here tasting wedding cakes when there wasn’t even a couple to celebrate. Just a billionaire with a bet and me with a million-dollar contract tofind him someone to marry who wasn’t me. Not that I wanted it to be me.
“I’ve revised my approach,” I said, shifting back into professional mode. “Focusing more on personality compatibility and less on résumé perfection.”
“Good,” he nodded. “Because I meant what I said. I want someone real.”
“Define ‘real,’” I challenged him. “Because in my experience, most men say they want ‘real’ women until they actually meet one who challenges them or has opinions they don’t like. Then suddenly they want ‘real’ women who also happen to agree with everything they say.”
He considered this. “Fair point. But I do want someone to challenge me. Yes men get old fast. I want someone who gets me.”
“Way to be vague and a tad cliché,” I muttered, saluting him with my champagne flute before downing the rest of the shimmering liquid.
He stuck his tongue out at me like a child before continuing. “Imean, I want someone who would still want to be with me if all this went away.” He gestured vaguely, presumably indicating his empire.
“That’s a pretty big ask for a marriage of convenience,” I pointed out. “You’re essentially describing love, which you’ve made clear isn’t part of the equation.”
“Not love,” he corrected. “Love doesn’t exist.”
“Cynic.”
“Yes. Thanks for noticing.” He shook his head. “I want authenticity. Respect. My parents had an arrangement, not a marriage. It lasted twenty-three years before they divorced.”
“Twenty-three years?” I was surprised. “That’s way longer than most love matches. Those normally last maybe eight years.”
“They were excellent business partners,” he explained. “Terrible spouses. They maintained separate bedrooms, separate lives, only united for public appearances and financial decisions.”
“Is that what you want?”
“God, no,” he said with unexpected vehemence. “But I also don’t buy into the fairy tale. Marriage is a practical partnership with occasional sex thrown in to keep things interesting.”
The way he tossed out the word “sex” made heat crawl up my neck. I hoped he’d attribute my sudden flush to the warm room rather than the immediate mental image of what “keeping things interesting” might look like with him.
“That’s... quite the romantic perspective. I can see why women are lining up. Nothing says ‘marry me’ like ‘practical partnership with occasional sex.’”
“You’d be surprised how appealing honesty can be,” he countered. “Better than promising the moon and delivering a piece of cheese.”
“I thought you liked cheese.”
“Love it.”
“Then that’s not a metaphor I’d use for marriage, but whatever works for you,” I said, biting back a laugh.
“What about you?” he asked, leaning forward. “After all the weddings you’ve planned, what’s your take on what makes marriages work?”
I hesitated, surprised by the personal question. “That’s not really relevant to our professional relationship.”
“Humor me,” he insisted. “Consider it research for your bride hunt. I need to know what my wedding planner thinks constitutes a good marriage if she’s going to find me a wife.”
I sighed, considering how to answer. “The best couples I work with are best friends first,” I admitted finally. “Everything else is just details. The fancy venue, the expensive dress, theperfect cake. None of it matters if there isn’t genuine affection and respect. It’s about the years of ups and downs afterwards, not really the big party that starts it.”
