Exactly what I needed.
I straightened my tie in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling windows, admiring both my perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit and the glittering Manhattan skyline behind me. I’d chosen this building for my headquarters specifically for this view. A constant reminder of how far I’d come from the cramped Queens apartment.
The elevator doors slid open, and I turned, knowing exactly how good I looked in silhouette. I’d perfected the move in my bathroom mirror at age sixteen and had been deploying it strategically ever since.
However, I nearly forgot the entire speech I’d prepared.
Anica Marcel was not what I’d expected. The wedding planners I’d encountered at friends’ weddings tended to be either aggressively cheerful middle-aged women who called everyone “honey” or nervous twentysomethings with clipboards and visible stress hives.
She was neither.
She stood in my elevator like she owned it. Dark hair pulled back in a knot so tight it looked like it was holding up not just her hair but possibly her entire skeletal structure. A black pencil skirt and matching blazer that somehow managed to be both strictly professional and distractingly flattering. Killer heels that brought her to just below my eye level and looked sharp enough to double as murder weapons in a pinch. And an expression that said she’d already calculated sixteen ways to efficiently dispose of my body if necessary.
I liked it. I liked it more than I should have.
“Ms. Marcel,” I said, stepping forward with my hand extended and what People magazine had once called my “devastatingly charming” smile. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
She assessed my hand as if it might be concealing a joy buzzer before shaking it firmly. No lingering touch, no demure smile. Just business. It was like shaking hands with a particularly attractive contract lawyer.
“Mr. Burkhardt,” she replied, her voice cool and composed. “Your five minutes start now.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I believe I offered a consultation fee for significantly longer than five minutes.”
“The fee buys you thirty minutes. But you have five to convince me this isn’t a waste of both our time.” She glanced pointedly at her watch, a modestly expensive timepiece that looked like it could survive a nuclear blast. “Four minutes, forty-three seconds.”
God, she was refreshing. After a day of meetings where everyone nodded at my most half-baked ideas like I was announcing the cure for cancer while simultaneously solving world hunger, her unfazed demeanor was practically an aphrodisiac.
“Drink?” I asked, gesturing toward the bar cart I’d specifically positioned to catch the light in a way that made the crystal decanters look like they contained liquid gold instead of overpriced alcohol.
“No, thank you.”
“Not even to make this conversation more tolerable?” I moved to the crystal decanter of thirty-year-old Macallan. “I assure you, it’s excellent. Aged longer than most of my relationships.”
“I don’t drink with clients until after I’ve saved their wedding,” she replied like a pre-recorded customer service message. “Water would be fine.”
I poured her a Fiji water. Of course I stocked Fiji water, imported directly from Fiji on boats made of sustainable bamboo or whatever made rich people feel less guilty about bottled water, and handed it to her, deliberately letting our fingers brush. Most women would have at least blinked at the contact. She might as well have been accepting a tax form.
“Now,” she said, not bothering to sit despite my gesture toward the sofa. “About this wedding.”
“Right to business. I appreciate efficiency.” I took a sip of my scotch, enjoying the slow burn and the knowledge that each sip cost roughly the same as a community college textbook. “I need a wedding. A perfect wedding. In three months.”
She pulled a small notebook from her bag and clicked a pen. “Budget?”
“Unlimited.”
Her pen paused. “Everyone has a budget, Mr. Burkhardt.”
“I don’t.”
“Even billionaires have finite resources,” she countered. “Let’s say seven figures and refine from there.”
I fought a smile. She wasn’t impressed by money. Or at least pretended not to be. She might be the first person in Manhattanwho didn’t immediately calculate my net worth upon meeting me and adjust their behavior accordingly. Another point in her favor.
“Fine. Initial budget of nine million, with flexibility for the right elements.”
She nodded, making a note. I tried to peek at her handwriting but couldn’t see past her expertly positioned arm. For all I knew, she was writing “pretentious rich guy” with a series of exclamation points.
“Venue preferences?”
