“That’s why,” Devonna said. “Callan Burkhardt. Tech billionaire. Manhattan’s most eligible eternal bachelor. And apparently, your next client.”
I stared at the image, an uneasy feeling settling in my stomach. “A billionaire playboy wants to plan a wedding?”
“Maybe he’s turning over a new leaf,” Mari suggested.
“Or maybe he’s a serial killer,” I countered. “I bet billionaires get away with murder all the time. They just throw money at their problems.”
“Well, we need money. Let’s be the one he throws it at.” Mari grinned.
“Now you’re making us sound like strippers.” I wrinkled my nose at her.
“Oh! We would be great strippers!”
Devonna ignored Mari bouncing in her chair, focusing on me. “Either way, I do agree that meeting with him is probably worth your time.”
“Fine,” I whined, even though all I wanted were my sweat set and my leftovers. “I’ll meet with the sexy serial killer.”
CHAPTER 2
Wanted: A Bride (Preferably Breathing)
CALLAN
Iwasn’t waiting for her.
Callan Burkhardt didn’t wait for people. People waited for me. Investors, developers, women who hoped I might finally settle down with them despite having better odds of winning the lottery while being struck by lightning. Even my grandmother, who had raised me and whom I adored beyond reason, knew better than to expect punctuality from me. The last time she invited me for Sunday dinner at 6:00, she told me it started at 4:30. I still arrived at 6:15.
Yet, I was pacing my penthouse office like a desperate contestant on The Bachelor waiting for the final rose?
I’d already rearranged the whiskey decanters three times, adjusted my tie seven times, and practiced my “casually leaning against the window” pose twice—once with hands in pockets, once with arms crossed. I settled on hands in pockets. Arms crossed looked too defensive, according to the body language book I definitely skimmed rather than read.
“Mr. Burkhardt, Ms. Marcel has arrived downstairs,” my assistant’s voice announced through the intercom. “Security is escorting her.”
“I told them to send her straight up,” I replied, annoyed at the delay. “Not interrogate her like she’s smuggling nuclear launch codes in her wedding planner binder.”
“Apparently there was some... confusion about her appointment.”
“Let me guess. Rick thinks she’s either an escort or a corporate spy?”
“Actually, he asked if she was here about the housekeeping position.”
I nearly choked. “He did not.”
“She was... not amused.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I probably sprained an ocular muscle. My head of security, Rick, had a tendency to treat every woman under forty who entered the building after hours as a potential threat to either my virtue or my intellectual property. His paranoia was usually an asset. Tonight, it was making me contemplate a career change for him. Perhaps as a human doorstop.
“Tell him I’ll personally ensure his next performance review is conducted by my grandmother after I’ve told her he made her snickerdoodle recipe ‘too dry.’”
“Already handled, sir. I informed him that sexual harassment lawsuits are significantly more expensive than whatever you’re paying Ms. Marcel.”
Of course she had. Erika had been my executive assistant for six years, ever since I’d poached her from a rival tech firm by tripling her salary and offering stock options that had since made her wealthy enough to buy a new car each month. She stayed, she claimed, because “someone has to keep you from becoming a complete megalomaniac, and the health insurance covers therapy.”
I glanced at my watch. 10:48 PM. Ms. Marcel was impressively punctual for someone summoned to a penthouseby a stranger at this hour. Most people would have waited until morning, sent a proxy, or called the police.
But then, Anica Marcel wasn’t most people, according to my research. Before the call, I’d had Erika compile a thorough profile. Ms. Marcel was a fashion merchandising major who’d pivoted to event planning after planning her sorority’s charity galas. She’d launched her own wedding planning business five years ago with her college roommate. Now, she was one of the most sought-after planners in Manhattan, with a reputation for turning disaster weddings into magazine-worthy events.
Also apparently immune to creepy late-night penthouse invitations from billionaires, which either made her exceptionally professional or exceptionally naïve. I was betting on the former.
