“I should go,” she said, her mask sliding back into place. “We have the florist meeting tomorrow at eleven. Try not to be late.”
“I’ll do my best, though I make no guarantees. I have a reputation as a chronically late billionaire to maintain.”
She smiled again. “Good night, Callan.”
“Good night, Anica,” I replied, using her first name without the “Ms. Marcel” shield between us.
She paused, one foot already in the car, and for a second I thought she might say something else. Instead, she nodded once and slipped into the driver’s seat. I closed her door gently and stepped back as she started the engine.
I stood in the driveway long after her taillights had disappeared down the winding road. This was not part of the plan. None of this was part of the plan.
I was supposed to be finding a bride for a bet, not... whatever this was. Not standing outside my grandmother’s house like some lovesick teenager, replaying the way she’d smiled when Gram showed her that ridiculous merman photo.
“Get it together, Burkhardt,” I muttered to myself, turning back toward the house. “You have a bet to win.”
CHAPTER 9
His Stupid Perfect Match
ANICA
“If I have to watch her flip that perfect hair one more time, I’m going to climb over there and check for battery compartments,” Mari hissed, peering through her binoculars. “No human woman’s hair bounces like that. She’s either an android or she’s replaced her blood with salon-quality conditioner.”
“Put those away,” I whispered, yanking the binoculars down. “We’re supposed to be inconspicuous. Professional women don’t generally bring military-grade surveillance equipment to business lunches.”
“I’m gathering intel,” Mari protested, though she did slip the binoculars into her oversized purse. “And my intel says she’s suspiciously perfect. Her posture hasn’t slipped once in forty-five minutes. Does she have a titanium spine? Is she wearing some kind of Victorian corset under that Chanel suit? Or is she just physically incapable of slouching like us mere mortals?”
I glanced over at the table where Callan sat with Angelina Mercy, candidate number three after the Destiny disaster and a second who got similar treatment. Unlike the first two, Angelina was actually going well. Very well.
Too well.
“She’s accomplished,” I muttered, stabbing my salad with enough force to impale a small woodland creature. “Oxford MBA. Founded a successful tech incubator for women-led startups. Speaks six languages fluently and four less fluently. Donates thirty percent of her income to charity. Once saved a litter of puppies from a burning building while negotiating a multi-million dollar merger on her Bluetooth.” I snorted, wrinkling my nose. “I made up that last part,” I added when Mari’s eyebrows shot up.
“And her ass doesn’t move when she walks,” Mari added. “I watched her come in. It’s like watching a cyborg in Louboutins. Not a single jiggle. Meanwhile, my ass applauds itself when I go up stairs.”
“Her physical attributes aren’t relevant to her suitability as a match,” I replied, violently spearing a cherry tomato.
Mari snorted. “Tell that to your eyes, which haven’t left her table in twenty minutes. Or to that poor salad you’re conducting a medieval torture session on.”
I deliberately looked down at my decimated lunch. “I’m monitoring the interaction. This is my job.”
“Uh-huh. And I suppose the fact that she keeps laughing and touching his arm is also being monitored ‘professionally’? Because if looks could kill, her hand would be a smoldering stump by now.”
I refused to look up again, though my peripheral vision had indeed registered Angelina’s perfectly manicured hand resting on Callan’s forearm. For the third time. Not that I was counting.
“It indicates mutual interest and engagement,” I mumbled. “Which is exactly what we want.”
“Is it?” Mari raised an eyebrow, looking uncannily like Vivian Burkhardt. Meeting Callan’s grandmother had only made my business partner more insufferable. Now she had a role modelfor her meddling. It’d been one of my biggest mistakes telling Mari about the dinner.
“Yes,” I insisted. “The goal is to find Callan a compatible match for his arrangement. Angelina meets every criterion on his list. Intelligent, accomplished, socially connected, not intimidated by his success, and genuinely interested in him rather than just his money.” I paused, stabbing another innocent piece of lettuce. “Plus, as you pointed out, she looks like she was genetically engineered by combining a supermodel’s DNA with a CEO’s LinkedIn profile and a sprinkle of Disney princess thrown in for good measure.”
“And that’s good,” Mari said, making it sound like a question.
“Of course it’s good. It’s perfect.” I forced a smile that felt like it might crack my face. “They’re perfect together. This is a professional triumph.”
“Then why do you look like you’re plotting her mysterious disappearance? I half expect you to start cackling and muttering ‘soon, my pretty’ while stirring a cauldron.”
“I don’t—” I began, then caught sight of my reflection in a nearby window. My expression could have curdled milk. I quickly rearranged my features into something more neutral. “I’m just concentrating.”
