I refused to acknowledge the accuracy of her assessment. “I’m bringing the bride portfolios,” I repeated stubbornly. “And my laptop.”
“Fine. Bring your work security blanket. But I’m leaving the good underwear in your suitcase, and I bet you fifty dollars you’ll be glad I did.”
I didn’t take the bet. I wasn’t entirely sure I’d win.
I’d never been on a private jet before. Not that I was going to admit that to Callan, who was watching me with amusement as I tried to act like this was all perfectly normal and not like I’d just stepped into an episode of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Ridiculous.”
“First time on a private jet?” he asked, gesturing to a cream leather seat that looked more comfortable than my entire apartment, including my bed and that expensive pillow I splurged on during a moment of weakness.
“I usually take the subway to private islands,” I replied, sliding into the seat and trying not to audibly gasp at how luxurious it felt. “Less traffic. More colorful characters. Occasionally someone plays the bongo drums.”
He laughed, dropping into the seat across from me. “Let me guess. You’re also going to pretend you haven’t been secretly checking out every detail of this plane since you stepped onboard.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lied, fighting the urge to press my face against the window like an excited child. “It’s just a plane with... fewer people. And nicer seats. And what looks suspiciously like a full bar. And is that... is that an actual crystal chandelier? On an airplane? That seems like a safety hazard. What happens during turbulence? Death by flying crystals?”
“It’s secured very well,” he assured me. “And yes, it is a full bar. And there’s a bedroom in the back. And yes, the bathroom is big enough to shower in. Explore. I won’t judge. Much.”
“I’m perfectly comfortable right here,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster, though my gaze kept darting to different features of the cabin.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, then called to the attendant. “Josie, could you bring Ms. Marcel a glass of champagne? And I’ll have my usual.”
“Right away, Mr. Burkhardt,” the attendant replied with a warm smile.
“You have a ‘usual’ on your private jet,” I observed. “That’s not at all obnoxiously wealthy. Next you’ll tell me you have a preferred caviar for mid-flight snacks.”
“Would it help if I told you my usual is just cranberry juice?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t drink alcohol when I fly. Makes me woozy.”
That surprised me. “Cranberry juice? Really?”
“With a splash of seltzer,” he nodded. “Gram got me hooked on it as a kid. Said it kept bladder infections at bay.”
I couldn’t help laughing at that. “Bladder health. Very sexy topic for a private jet. Do you discuss urinary tract infections with all your female guests, or am I just special?”
“I’m full of sexy conversation starters,” he agreed. “Bladder health, tax shelters, the proper way to fold pocket squares. I’m basically a walking aphrodisiac.”
I was still laughing when Josie returned with our drinks; champagne for me and, sure enough, cranberry juice with seltzer for him. The champagne was, of course, perfectly chilled.
“So,” Callan said after we’d taken off, “ground rules for the weekend.”
“I thought the whole point was no rules,” I replied. “A break from structure and planning. A vacation from your wedding planner.”
“Fair point,” he conceded. “But I do have one request.”
“Which is?”
“No work talk,” he said firmly. “No wedding details, no bride hunting, no business expansion plans. Just... relaxation.”
I shifted uncomfortably, thinking of the bride portfolios neatly packed in my carry-on. “Define ‘work talk,’” I hedged.
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You brought work, didn’t you?”
“I might have packed a few... resources,” I admitted. “Just in case.”
“In case of what? A sudden wedding emergency on my private island? A surprise bride candidate washing up on shore? ‘Help, help, I’m a perfect match for a billionaire and I’ve been shipwrecked on his private island! Good thing his wedding planner brought my compatibility profile!’”
“In case of awkward silence,” I said, feeling foolish now. “Or if you changed your mind about the bride search. Or if I have a panic attack about being trapped on an island with a man who looks like you and need something work-related to focus on instead of your... everything.” I gestured vaguely at him, then immediately regretted it.
Callan shook his head, but he was smiling. “Anica Marcel, professional to the bitter end. Fine, you can keep your work. But it stays in your suitcase unless explicitly requested. Deal?”
