“The sooner the better,” I replied, keeping my tone businesslike. “I have client meetings tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Was it my imagination, or did he sound disappointed? “I’ll be back in the city on Tuesday. Should we schedule another bride candidate meeting then? Angie’s great, but I’m sure you have others lined up.”
“I’ll have Devonna set it up,” I agreed, the words tasting bitter. “I’ve narrowed it down to three promising options based on your previous feedback.”
“Looking forward to it,” he said, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
We parted ways at the main house, Callan heading to his office for what he claimed were urgent business calls, me retreating to the guest bungalow to pack. An hour later, I was alone on his private jet heading back to New York, a strange emptiness settling in my chest that had nothing to do with altitude changes and everything to do with the man I was leaving behind.
“You’ve checked your phone fifty-four times today.”
I looked up from my desk—and yes, my phone—to find Mari leaning in my office doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised in an expression of supreme judgment.
“I’m expecting an important email from a vendor,” I lied, setting the phone down.
“And does this vendor’s name rhyme with ‘Fallan’?”
“I don’t know any vendors named Fallan,” I replied. “Though there is that new florist, Allen, who’s been unreliable with his quote for the Luca wedding.”
“Cut the shit, Anica,” Mari said, dropping into the chair across from me. “You’ve been moping since you got back from Billionaire Island yesterday. You haven’t mentioned Callan once, which is suspicious since you spent an entire weekend alone with him. And Devonna says you’ve started stress-organizing the emergency kits by category and color, which youonly do when you’re avoiding your feelings so hard they could file a restraining order.”
“I’m not avoiding anything,” I insisted, straightening the already perfectly aligned stack of papers on my desk. “I had a professional weekend with a client, came back, and now I’m focused on work. Like a professional. Because that’s what I am. Professional.”
“You said ‘professional’ three times in that sentence,” Mari pointed out. “Which means you did something extremely unprofessional. Like, ‘caught giving a lap dance to the DJ at the reception’ unprofessional. Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill,” I maintained; however, she kept staring at me in that knowing way that I finally threw my head back and sighed. “Fine. We missed the ferry, had to stay overnight in a B&B, shared a bed because there were no other options, and nothing happened.”
“You shared a bed?” Mari screeched, loud enough that I was sure the entire building heard her. “And nothing happened? What is wrong with you two? Were you both wearing full body casts? Did you develop a sudden allergy to orgasms? Is his penis purely decorative?”
“We held hands,” I admitted in a small voice. “And talked. About real things. Feelings and fears and... stuff.”
Mari stared at me in horror. “Oh my god. That’s worse than if you’d just slept with him. You’re emotionally involved. That’s like skipping straight past casual sex to U-Hauling your feelings into his emotional apartment.”
“I am not?—”
“Save it for someone who hasn’t known you since college,” she interrupted. “You’re into him. Like, really into him. Not just his abs or his billions or his perfect butt, but the actual person. The real Callan, not just the Burkhardt packaging.”
I buried my face in my hands. “It doesn’t matter. He’s still planning to marry someone else. That’s literally why he hired us.”
“But you said little is working out with the candidates,” Mari pointed out.
“He likes Angie.”
“The bitch robot with perfect hair and non-bouncy ass?”
“Yeah.” The word came out all mopey.
“I doubt he actually likes her.” Mari wrinkled her nose. “There is such a thing as too perfect. Maybe this is all a sign.”
“A sign of what? That I’m bad at my job?”
“That maybe the right candidate has been standing in front of him this whole time,” she suggested gently. “Wearing pencil skirts and organizing chaotic weddings and occasionally drooling on his abs in her sleep.”
“Don’t,” I pleaded. “Don’t give me hope where there isn’t any. He’s meeting with three new candidates this week. One of them will work out. One of them has to.”
“And if none of them do?”
“Then I’ll find more. We have only a few weeks before his wedding,” I pointed out. “That’s my job. That’s what he’s paying me for.”
