“And yet, here you are, suffering me quite enthusiastically,” he pointed out, lowering his head to press a kiss to the swell of my breast above the lace. “In fact, I’d say you’re the opposite of suffering. Unless that little sound you just made was a cry for help.” His tongue traced the edge of the lace, and I tangled my fingers in his hair, holding him against me. “Was it?” Callan nipped at my skin. “A cry for help?”
“Fuck, no.”
The rational part of my brain, the small portion not currently consumed with sensation, knew we should stop. That this was crossing every professional boundary I’d ever established. That there would be consequences.
But the rest of me, the part currently on fire from his touch, told my rational mind to shut the hell up.
“This is a terrible idea,” I whispered, even as I tugged him back up to capture his lips in another searing kiss.
“The best ideas usually are,” he murmured against my mouth, walking me backward until my legs hit the sofa. “Like inventing the internet. Or putting pineapple on pizza. Or hiring the world’s most uptight wedding planner and then making her lose her mind.”
“I’m not uptight,” I protested as we tumbled onto the cushions.
“Your emergency kits have emergency kits,” he pointed out, settling his weight above me.
“And they’ve solved plenty of problems,” I said, tugging his shirt up to finally, finally get my hands on those abs I’d been dreaming about since day one. “God, you’re perfect.”
“Speak for yourself, darling,” he groaned as my nails raked lightly down his stomach. “You’re killing me here.”
His mouth found mine again in a kiss that made my toes curl. His hand slid up my thigh, inching the hem of my skirt higher, and I mentally thanked Mari for her insistence that I wear my “good” underwear today instead of my sensible cotton briefs.
I was about to suggest we move this to the bedroom when a chiming sound filled the room, followed by a massive screen on the wall lighting up with an incoming video call. A familiar face filled the display. Vivian Burkhardt, looking elegant as ever.
“Callan, darling, I was just calling to—oh!” Her eyes widened comically as she took in the scene before her; her grandson hovering over a disheveled me on the couch, my blouse half unbuttoned, his shirt rucked up to expose those world-class abs, both of us looking thoroughly debauched.
We sprang apart like teenagers caught by parents, me frantically re-buttoning my blouse while Callan attempted to smooth his hair and appear composed.
“Gram!” he exclaimed, his voice an octave higher than normal. “What a surprise! I wasn’t expecting your call.”
“Clearly,” she replied in a flat tone. “Hello, Anica dear. Lovely to see you again, though perhaps more of you than either of us anticipated.”
“Mrs. Burkhardt,” I managed, mortification burning through me like acid. “This isn’t—we were just?—”
“Having a business meeting?” she suggested, her eyes twinkling. “A very hands-on consultation about wedding plans?”
“Something like that,” Callan muttered, shooting me an apologetic glance.
“Well, don’t let me interrupt,” Vivian said in a cheerful voice. “I just wanted to remind you about Sunday dinner this weekend. Anica, you’re welcome to join us again. Though perhaps you two should arrive separately to avoid giving my old heart too much excitement. Or wear turtlenecks to hide any... evidence of your business discussions.”
“I should go,” I blurted, gathering my scattered papers from the floor with shaking hands. “I have an early meeting tomorrow.”
“Bad timing, dears?” Vivian asked innocently.
“The worst,” Callan muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Gram,” he promised, clearly eager to end the conversation.
“Do that,” she agreed. “And Callan? Next time, perhaps consider turning off the auto-answer function on your video system when you’re... consulting with your wedding planner. Unless you’re interested in producing wedding night videos before the actual wedding.”
The screen went black, leaving us in silence.
“Well,” Callan said finally. “That was...”
“Humiliating?” I suggested. “Mortifying? The single most embarrassing moment of my professional career? A new entry in my personal ‘Top Ten Ways to Die of Shame’ list?”
“I was going to say ‘memorable,’ but those work too.”
I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Your grandmother saw me half-undressed on your couch. I can never face her again. I’ll have to move. Change my name. Perhaps enter the witness protection program. Start a new life as a sheep farmer in New Zealand.”
“If it helps, she seemed more amused than scandalized,” Callan offered, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. “Andfor what it’s worth, I’m not sorry it happened. Well, not the interruption part. The rest of it.”
