“Interrogated is a strong word,” he protested. “I merely inquired about certain details that might make your stay more comfortable. No waterboarding was involved. Though I did have to bribe her with fancy coffee.”
I should have been annoyed at the invasion of privacy, but I was oddly touched. No one had ever gone to such lengths to make me comfortable before.
“Well, thank you. It’s... very thoughtful.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he replied. “I can be thoughtful when properly motivated.”
“And what’s your motivation here?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Something flickered in his eyes. “I want you to enjoy yourself, Anica. You deserved a break even before the sprinkler incident. Now you’ve earned a medal of honor and possibly sainthood.”
I laughed, relieved by the shift to lighter territory. “So this island is my medal?”
“Consider it a loaner medal,” he corrected with a grin. “I’m still quite attached to it.”
“Duly noted.”
“I’ll let you get settled,” he said, moving toward the door. “Meet me at the main house when you’re ready. No rush.”
This was not normal client behavior. This was not normal anything.
By late afternoon, I’d changed into my sensible black one-piece (hidden beneath a cover-up that provided maximum skin coverage) and made my way to the beach. Callan was already there, stretched out on a lounge chair with a book, wearing nothing but swim trunks.
I’d seen attractive men before. I’d even seen Callan in images without a shirt on. But nothing had prepared me for the reality of Callan Burkhardt shirtless in person. His chest and abs looked like they’d been sculpted by an artist with a particular appreciation for the male form. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and a tantalizing trail of dark hair disappeared into his swim trunks.
I forced my eyes upward, only to find him watching me.
“See something you like?” he asked, because of course he’d noticed me staring.
“Just making sure you’re wearing sunscreen,” I replied with as much dignity as I could muster. “Skin cancer is no joke, even for billionaires. Melanoma doesn’t care about your bank account.”
“How considerate.” He patted the lounge chair beside him. “Join me? The view is spectacular.”
He wasn’t wrong. The beach was pristine, the water a shade of blue I’d previously only seen in heavily filtered Instagram photos. I settled onto the chair, careful to maintain my cover-up’s strategic coverage.
“You’re not swimming?” he asked, nodding at my outfit.
“Maybe later,” I hedged. “Just enjoying the view for now.”
“Fair enough.” He returned to his book, seemingly content with silence.
After a few minutes of tense self-awareness on my part, I finally began to relax. There was something about the rhythm of the waves, the warmth of the sun, and the absence of phone calls, emails, and wedding emergencies that slowly unwound the knot of anxiety I perpetually carried between my shoulder blades.
“I can’t remember the last time I had a day off,” I admitted, breaking the companionable silence.
Callan glanced up from his book. “Seriously? Not even a weekend?”
“Weekends are the worst, actually. Wedding season is year-round when you’re building a business. If I’m not at an actual wedding, I’m meeting with clients, or vendors, or working on marketing, or dealing with emergencies.”
“That sounds exhausting. Don’t you ever burn out?”
“Occasionally, but I love what I do. Most of the time, it doesn’t feel like work.”
“What about your family? Do they understand the crazy schedule?”
“My parents are actually pretty supportive,” I said. “They’ve been married for thirty-seven years and still act like newlyweds sometimes. I think that’s part of why I love weddings—I grew up seeing what a good marriage looks like.”
“Thirty-seven years,” Callan mused. “That’s impressive. What’s their secret?”
