“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Callan asked as we found seats near the railing. “Being mistaken for a happily married couple on their sex-filled honeymoon?”
“Speak for yourself,” I muttered. “I’m going to need therapy to recover from Mrs. Albury’s description of her third husband’s stamina techniques. I will never look at kitchen utensils the same way again.”
“I thought the part about the bananas was quite educational,” he replied, straight-faced. “Though anatomically improbable. At least without significant practice and possibly a physics degree.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
“So about my Greek god abs...”
“I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“Not in this lifetime. I’m having it engraved on my business cards. ‘Callan Burkhardt, CEO, Billionaire, Possessor of Deity-Level Abdominal Muscles.’”
We lapsed into a surprisingly comfortable silence as the ferry pulled away from the dock, watching the island recede in the distance. The awkwardness I’d feared didn’t materialize; instead, a strange sense of intimacy had settled between us. As if the night we’d spent talking in the darkness, sharing secrets and holding hands, had shifted something fundamental in our relationship.
That was the problem. We weren’t supposed to have a relationship beyond the professional. Yet, I was hyperaware of every movement he made, every brush of his arm against mine, every smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Get it together, Anica, I scolded myself.You are a professional. You have a job to do. A job that specifically involves finding this man a wife who is not you. A job that absolutely does not include thinking about those abs or what might have happened if you’d woken up five minutes earlier and decided to explore the territory south of the border.
As we approached Callan’s island, my phone buzzed in my pocket; the first sign of service returning. I pulled it out to find a barrage of notifications filling my screen. The first four were from Mari.
Did you climb him like a tree yet? If not, I’m disowning you as my business partner and best friend.
Hello? Are you alive or did you die from sexual frustration?
If you’re not responding because you’re having wild billionaire sex, I forgive you. DETAILS REQUIRED UPON RETURN.
Devonna says I should stop texting you, but she also put $20 in the “they didn’t do it” pool, so who’s the real enabler here?
The next two from Devonna weren’t particularly better.
Hope you’re enjoying the island. The Rickter-Bingly wedding has requested a last-minute change to their menu. Also, Mari has started a betting pool about your weekend activities that is highly inappropriate. I put twenty dollars on “mutual pining but no action.” Please don’t disappoint me.
P.S. If you did sleep with him, I’ll forgive you for making me lose the bet if you provide a detailed rating of his performance. For statistical purposes only.
I quickly shoved my phone back into my pocket before Callan could see the messages, but not before noticing he was frowning at his own screen.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Just catching up,” he replied vaguely, thumbs flying across his phone. “Angie’s sent a few messages.”
Right. The perfect candidate. The woman who actually fit his criteria, unlike the wedding planner who was currently fighting an inappropriate attraction to her client and losing badly. Like, surrendering-the-white-flag, waving-it-while-sobbing badly.
“That’s good. Is she eager to continue where you left off?” I asked, aiming for a neutral tone and landing somewhere closer to “slightly constipated sea lion.”
“Right. Yes,” he said, not looking up from his phone.
I hated myself for the disappointment that settled in my stomach like a lead weight. What had I expected? That one night of hand-holding and confessions would make him abandon his plan? That he’d suddenly declare his undying love for me instead of pursuing his arrangement with a woman who actually made sense?
“I should check in with the office.” I pulled out my own phone again and pretended to be absorbed in work emails. “Make sure no brides have committed felonies in my absence.”
The rest of the ferry ride passed in silence, each of us retreating into our respective digital worlds, the easy camaraderie of the past twenty-four hours evaporating like morning mist under the harsh sun of reality.
By the time we docked at Callan’s private marina, I’d recreated my professional walls back to their full height. Bulletproof. Impenetrable. Definitely not vulnerable to smiles or hand-holding or morning erections that could very well rearrange a woman’s insides.
On second thought, poor Angelina.
“I’ll have Rhonda prepare your things,” Callan said as we walked toward the main house. “The jet can take you back to New York whenever you’re ready.”
