I wanted to respond, to explore this mutual admission, but exhaustion and alcohol were dragging me under.
CHAPTER 12
Two For The Honeymoon Suite
CALLAN
Ahaunted house. That was a new one. I could not wait to see if she remembered saying that.
The sun streaming through my bedroom windows reminded me it was morning, and morning meant facing Anica with the uncomfortable knowledge that I’d seen a side of her I doubted she ever intended to show. I’d watched her walls crumble under the influence of my admittedly too-strong island cocktails, listened to her confess her attraction to me, and then, like some kind of deranged gentleman, tucked her into bed without taking advantage of the situation.
Who even was I anymore? And could I return this evolved version of myself for the original model? The new firmware update seemed to have disabled my “billionaire playboy with no moral compass” setting.
I glared at the ceiling. Anica had stared up at me with her bright eyes, telling me she thought about me “in the that way. The sexy that way.” Anica had begged me to kiss her. Anica had worn my shirt and declared it meant she owned my soul according to “ancient shirt law.”
Drunk Anica was adorable. Unfiltered. Real in a way few people ever allowed themselves to be with me. I grinned like anidiot. The woman who had been nothing but organization and pencil skirts had spent twenty minutes talking to me about her absent sex life.
Shit.
She was going to be pissed.
I had a feeling she’d probably remember the mortifying details and would rather swim with sharks than acknowledge any of it. Actually, knowing Anica, she’d have a laminated action plan for swimming with sharks. The woman probably packed a shark deterrent in a secret emergency kit.
I dragged myself out of bed, showered, and instructed Rhonda to prepare a hangover-friendly breakfast. Aspirin, coffee strong enough to wake the dead, and enough carbs to soak up whatever rum remained in Anica’s system. I arranged everything on a tray, trying to convince myself this was just basic hospitality, not an excuse to see her first thing in the morning with bed-head and sleepy eyes.
I spent the walk to the bungalow rehearsing casual opening lines.“Morning, how’s the head?”No, that sounded like I was inquiring about a blowjob.“Sleep well?”Too loaded.“Remember declaring your vagina has cobwebs and asking me to kiss you?”Definitely not.“How’s the haunted house? Any ghost evictions overnight?”Tempting, but I enjoyed having all my limbs attached to my body.
I settled on a simple “Good morning” as I knocked on her door, balancing the breakfast tray in one hand. I could’ve made it as a waiter. Maybe. Actually, I probably would’ve gotten fired for eating other people’s food. The closest I’d come was serving drinks at a college party, which ended with me charging people five dollars to watch me do a handstand on a keg. Not exactly fine dining service.
After an extended pause, during which I imagined her hiding under the covers or possibly searching for an escape routethrough the bathroom window, the door opened to reveal Anica looking like someone who had made a series of questionable life choices, starting with accepting blue drinks from a man whose middle name might as well be “Bad Influence.”
Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, glasses emphasized her bloodshot eyes, and she wore a resort robe cinched tightly at the waist. My shirt from last night was clutched in her hand like evidence from a crime scene she was planning to burn.
“Is that coffee?” she asked, her voice hoarse and gravelly in a way that should not have been attractive but somehow was.
“And aspirin,” I confirmed, lifting the tray slightly. “And enough carbs to construct a small fortress. Or at the very least, a modest carbohydrate bungalow with a nice view.”
“You’re a saint,” she muttered, stepping back to let me in. “A saint who makes drinks that should be classified as weapons of mass destruction by the Geneva Convention, but a saint nonetheless.”
I set the tray on the small table by the window, sneaking glances at her as she shuffled across the room like a zombie in a luxury bathrobe. Even hungover and clearly miserable, she was beautiful in that understated way that snuck up on you. The way that made you think about what she’d look like waking up next to you every morning, not just on a tropical island after too many cocktails.
Stop it, Burkhardt. Client. Wedding planner. Professional relationship. The woman who is currently planning your wedding to someone else. Get a grip, preferably not on her.
“Sleep well?” I asked casually, immediately regretting choosing the one opening line I’d explicitly rejected in my mental rehearsal. Smooth, real smooth.
“Like I was hit by a truck filled with rum,” she replied, reaching for the coffee like it contained the elixir of life. “You?”
“Great. Perfect. Never better,” I said, sounding about as natural as a robot attempting human conversation for the first time. “Very... sleep-like. The sleep. That I did. Sleeping.”
Dear god, I sounded like someone had performed a lobotomy on my language center. Worse. I sounded like Drunk Anica. I, Callan Burkhardt, notorious smooth-talker who once convinced a venture capitalist to invest twenty million dollars during an elevator ride, was stammering like a teenager asking someone to prom.
“Good. That’s... good.” She nodded, then winced at the movement. “About last night?—”
“Already forgotten,” I cut in, flashing my best reassuring smile. “Island rules. What happens under the influence of tropical cocktails stays under the influence of tropical cocktails. Like Vegas, but with more sand and fewer Elvis impersonators.”
Relief flashed across her face, followed by something that looked almost like disappointment before she masked it with another sip of coffee. “Right. Good. Thank you.”
“For what?” I asked innocently.
