Page 11

Maybe She’s The Serial Killer

ANICA

“ I ’m not sure if this is a wedding planning office or a CIA operations center,” Mari announced, gesturing to the conference room I’d commandeered for Project Find-Callan-A-Wife-Before-He-Ruins-My-Career.

“Or possibly the lair of a very organized serial killer who color-codes his victims by blood type.”

I looked up from the profile I was analyzing—thirty-two-year-old hedge fund manager with a penchant for charity galas and CrossFit—to survey my handiwork.

The walls were covered in photos, profiles, and sticky notes.

A massive whiteboard displayed a complex matrix of compatibility metrics, and the conference table was buried under printouts sorted into piles labeled “Promising,” “Potential,” and “Last Resort But Still Technically Breathing.”

“The difference is surprisingly negligible at this point,” I replied, adjusting a photo that had slipped slightly out of alignment. “Though I think serial killers typically have better work-life balance. And probably more sex.”

“Speaking of sex,” Mari said, making herself comfortable by sitting directly on top of my “Potential” pile, “when are you planning to climb Mount Burkhardt? I’ve started a betting pool with the caterers from the Jonas wedding.

I’ve got fifty bucks on ‘within two weeks but only after a screaming match.’”

“You did not start a betting pool,” I said, horrified.

“You’re right.” She nodded solemnly. “It’s actually seventy-five dollars, and Devonna’s in charge of the spreadsheet.”

On cue, Devonna appeared in the doorway, tablet clutched to her chest like always. But unlike her usual anxious demeanor, she had a dreamy, distant look in her eyes.

“Mr. Burkhardt’s assistant called,” she announced. “He’ll be here in approximately forty minutes.”

“He’s not due for another hour,” I noted, checking my watch.

“Yes, but he mentioned he’s running early today, which according to my calculations, means he’ll arrive twenty minutes late instead of his usual thirty to forty-five.

” She adjusted her glasses. Her cheeks were flushed.

“I’ve prepared the good coffee and arranged the almond pastries he mentioned liking last time. ”

Mari and I exchanged looks.

“Devonna,” I said carefully, “did you buy special pastries just for Callan?”

“Of course not. I simply noticed that they happened to be on sale, and they pair nicely with our Ethiopian roast, which I also happened to purchase this morning from that specialty shop seventeen blocks away that doesn’t deliver.”

“Uh-huh,” Mari said, grinning. “And does this specialty shop happen to be directly across the street from that gym where a certain billionaire has been photographed leaving with his shirt stuck to his abs?”

Devonna’s flush deepened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m simply maintaining appropriate client relations.”

“I’d like to maintain relations with his?—”

“Mari!” I cut her off. “Please remember this is a professional workplace.”

“Says the woman who’s turned our conference room into a vision board for her billionaire fantasy wedding,” she retorted.

“It’s not—that’s not what this is,” I spluttered, gesturing to the profiles.

“I’ve spent the past week compiling the most comprehensive database of eligible Manhattan socialites ever assembled outside of a dating app headquarters.

Each candidate has been thoroughly vetted through social media, mutual connections, and in some cases, discreet background checks courtesy of Devonna’s mysterious ‘boyfriend who does security work.’”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Devonna muttered. “We just occasionally exchange information and bodily fluids.”

Mari and I both froze, staring at her.

“What?” she asked innocently. “I’m an adult woman with needs that occasionally include having my back blown out by a former Navy SEAL who now runs background checks.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my assistant?” I demanded, genuinely shocked.

Devonna adjusted her glasses again and shrugged, returning to her usual demeanor.

“I’ve organized the candidate files as requested.

The top three have been highlighted and placed on your desk, with Destiny Gitwieler as the primary recommendation.

I’ve also taken the liberty of pressing your blue dress for tonight’s dinner observation, as blue appears to be the color Mr. Burkhardt responds to most favorably based on my analysis of his past female companions. ”

“You’ve been analyzing his... Wait, how do you even know I’m wearing blue tonight?”

“You’ve touched every blue item in your closet at least twice this week while sighing,” she replied matter-of-factly. “And you’ve been staring at photos of him approximately 34% longer than is strictly necessary for professional assessment.”

“I have not!” I protested, heat rising to my cheeks.

“Your pupils dilate an average of 2.7 millimeters when he enters a room,” she continued, as if reciting from a scientific journal. “And you’ve started wearing matching underwear to work despite having no logical reason to do so.”

Mari howled with laughter while I stood there, mortified and impressed in equal measure.

“How do you know about my underwear?” I finally managed.

“You don’t squat down like a lady. You bend over and show the world your fancy underwear,” Devonna shrugged again. “La Perla doesn’t manufacture practical cotton briefs, Anica.”

“Have you considered that this might be slightly...” Mari searched for the right word, tilting her head at the wall of faces, “...psychotic? And I mean that as the highest compliment, because I am here for this level of unhinged dedication.”

“I prefer ‘methodical,’” I corrected, adding another sticky note to the hedge fund manager’s profile. “This is a million-dollar contract. I’m being thorough.”

“Uh-huh,” Mari said skeptically, picking up a photo of a willowy blonde and pretending to make out with it.

“And the fact that you’ve spent more time on this than you did planning the Burgis-Schmidt wedding—which, may I remind you, included a live elephant and that ice sculpture that accidentally looked phallic when it started melting—has nothing to do with your growing obsession with our favorite billionaire? ”

“I am not obsessed with Callan Burkhardt,” I snapped, immediately regretting the defensive tone. “I’m obsessed with winning. With proving I can pull off the impossible.”

“Right. That’s why you’ve rejected fourteen perfectly suitable women because”—she picked up my notes and read in a mocking voice—“‘laugh is too high-pitched,’ ‘probably wears scrunchies unironically,’ ‘gives off clingy energy,’ and my personal favorite, ‘boobs too similar to mine.’”

I snatched the notes back, my face burning. “I never wrote that last one!”

“No, but you thought it,” Mari said smugly. “I saw you comparing chest sizes yesterday.”

“I was assessing overall proportions for formal wear compatibility,” I insisted. It sounded ridiculous.

“Mmm-hmm. And you’d know because you’ve spent so much time analyzing his preferences? Or because you’ve spent so much time analyzing him? Don’t think I didn’t notice you replaying that video where he emerges from the pool at the Hamptons charity event. Eleven times, Anica. I counted.”

“It was research,” I said, straightening a pile of profiles. “He needs someone who can match his... intensity.”

“Oh, I bet you could match his intensity,” Mari waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Preferably horizontally. Or vertically against a wall. I’m not picky about the orientation, just the action.

Though personally, I’d recommend starting with a solid sixty-nine, because that man’s jawline was designed by God himself for?—”

“You’re disgusting,” I informed her, ignoring the flush creeping up my neck. “And inappropriate. And fired from this project.”

“You can’t fire me. I’m your business partner and emotional support animal.

” She hopped onto the table, scattering my carefully arranged piles.

“Besides, someone needs to be here to witness the sexual tension when he arrives. It’s like watching National Geographic, but instead of lions mating, it’s an uptight perfectionist and a Greek god incarnate pretending they don’t want to rip each other’s clothes off. ”

Devonna cleared her throat. “Mr. Burkhardt’s car just pulled up outside. He appears to be seventeen minutes early for his scheduled late arrival.”

Mari and I both stared at her.

“I installed a small alert system,” she explained with a shrug. “It notifies me when his vehicle is within fifty feet of our building.”

“That’s... definitely illegal,” I said slowly.

“Only in fourteen states,” she replied. “And I’ve calculated that the financial benefit of advanced preparation outweighs the minimal legal risk.”

“Who are you?” Mari asked, clearly impressed.

“I appreciate efficiency and good bone structure,” Devonna replied, smoothing her already-immaculate blouse. “And Mr. Burkhardt has exceptional bone structure. Among other things.”

“My god, he’s infected both of you,” I muttered. “Is there anyone in this office who can maintain professional boundaries?”

“Professional boundaries are for people who don’t have the opportunity to marry billionaires,” Mari declared, sliding off the table. “Speaking of which, I need to freshen up before he arrives. I’m wearing my special occasion bra. The one with the front clasp that can be undone with teeth.”

“Why would he be undoing your bra with his teeth?” I demanded.

Mari’s grin was positively feline. “He wouldn’t be.

But a girl can dream. And prepare. And possibly accidentally bump into him in a way that requires him to steady me with his enormous hands on my ass.

God, do you think his hands are any indication of his dick?

Or is that feet? Devonna, what size shoe does he wear? ”

“Size 13 in US sizes. In European sizes that’s–”