“You made up a brother.”
“Creative marketing,” he countered. “Besides, who knows? Maybe I’ll adopt one by next June. Or build one. I have the technology.”
I shook my head, fighting a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet incredibly effective,” he pointed out. “Three bookings in one hour. I’m pretty sure that means I’ve earned at least one of those mini-cakes.”
He wasn’t wrong. The morning continued in the same vein, with Callan charming potential clients while I handled the technical details. We developed a natural rhythm, playing off each other’s strengths. He’d draw them in with his charisma, I’d close the deal with my experience.
I couldn’t help noticing the envious glances from neighboring booths, particularly Enchanting Endings, whose champagne fountain was attracting less attention than Callan’s smile.
“Your boyfriend is quite the asset,” the Enchanting Endings owner, Lauryn, remarked during a brief lull. “Smart move bringing him. Does he do children’s parties too? Or is he just eye candy for the mothers-of-the-bride?”
“He’s not my—” I began automatically, then caught myself. “Yes, he’s been very helpful.”
No point in explaining the complicated reality to a competitor who’d use any information as ammunition. Let her think what she wanted.
“Lucky you,” Lauryn said with a tight smile. “Well, may the best planner win.” She retreated to her booth, whispering urgently to her assistants.
“What was that about?” Callan asked, returning with two cups of coffee from the concession stand.
“Just friendly industry competition,” I replied, accepting the coffee gratefully. “And thank you for this. I was running on fumes.”
“Can’t have my star planner collapsing from caffeine withdrawal.” He checked his watch. “It’s almost one. Have you eaten anything today?”
I tried to remember. “I had... half a protein bar in the car? All of my leftover takeout boxes had mold in them so I had to toss them.”
“A protein bar is not food,” he declared. “It’s a sad rectangle masquerading as nutrition. Come on, we’re taking a lunch break.”
“We can’t both leave the booth,” I protested.
“Sure we can.” He glanced around, then waved over a young woman from the booth across from ours. “Excuse me, would youmind watching this booth for twenty minutes? I’ll pay you five hundred dollars.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Um, sure!”
Before I could object, Callan had handed her the cash and was steering me toward the exit. “Twenty minutes,” he said firmly. “Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor,” I pointed out.
“I played one in my third-grade play,” he replied. “Close enough. I said ‘stat’ and everything. Very convincing.”
He led me to a quiet corner of the convention center where food vendors had set up. After procuring sandwiches and drinks, we found a relatively secluded table away from the main crowd.
“Eat,” he commanded, pushing a sandwich toward me. “Before you pass out and I have to dramatically catch you again. Though I wouldn’t mind,” he added with a wink.
I rolled my eyes but took a bite of the sandwich, realizing how hungry I was. We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
“So,” Callan said finally, “this is what you do. All the time, I mean. The behind-the-scenes stuff.”
“Pretty much,” I nodded. “Though usually with more staff and less last-minute panic.”
“You’re really good at it,” he observed. “At all of it. The planning, the client management, the execution.”
“Thank you,” I said, surprised by the compliment.
“Why not expand?” he asked. “You clearly have the skills and the reputation. You could have offices in multiple cities.”
I hesitated, not used to sharing my professional dreams. “That’s the plan, eventually. But expansion requires capital, and wedding planning isn’t exactly venture capital’s favorite industry. Most investors hear ‘wedding’ and think ‘frivolous,’ not ‘scalable business opportunity.’”
