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“Boring,” Kris yawned. “Marry the wedding planner instead. At least she has fire.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks as Callan laughed. “Don’t tempt me. She’s already threatened my life twice this week.”

“Only twice?” Morgan seemed impressed. “You’re slipping, man.”

“We’ll let you get back to your bride hunting,” Chance said. “But weekly updates are required. Terms of the bet.”

“And photographic evidence of all meetings,” Kris added. “No claiming you met with someone when you were actually just getting lap dances at Scores.”

“That was one time, and it was your bachelor party,” Callan protested.

“Still counts,” Morgan said. “Good luck, Anica. You’ll need it.”

The call ended before I could respond, leaving me standing there in stunned silence.

“So those are my friends,” Callan said cheerfully. “Charming, aren’t they?”

“That’s not the word I’d use,” I replied, still processing what I’d just witnessed. “Are they always like that?”

“That was them on good behavior,” he assured me. “Usually there’s more profanity and at least one reference to the Stanford incident, which is legally prohibited from being discussed in public.”

Despite myself, I was curious. “What Stanford incident?”

“Nice try.” He winked. “That information requires at least level seven friendship clearance. You’re currently at level two: ‘reluctant professional acquaintance with homicidal tendencies.’”

“I’m at level ‘client who’s testing my patience,’” I corrected, turning back to the board. “Now, about tonight. Destiny is our best option. She’s smart, accomplished, socially connected, and most importantly, looking for a strategic relationship.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I actually spoke to her, unlike some people who just make snap judgments based on photographs,” I replied. “She was quite candid about wanting a partnership that would benefit her foundation. I was clear about the... unusual circumstances.”

“You told her about the bet?” He seemed surprised.

“I told her you were seeking a marriage of convenience on an expedited timeline. She doesn’t know the specific motivation.” I handed him a folder with Destiny’s complete profile. “She’s interested enough to meet. Dinner tonight at Le Bernardin, eight o’clock. Wear a suit.”

He flipped through the folder, his expression unreadable. “She seems perfect on paper.”

“She is perfect,” I insisted. “Attractive, intelligent, independent, and realistic about marriage. Exactly what you claimed to want.”

He closed the folder. “We’ll see.”

Something in his tone worried me. “Please don’t sabotage this meeting.”

“Would I do that?” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense.

“Based on my limited experience with you? Absolutely.”

He grinned. “I promise to be on my best behavior.”

“Somehow that’s not reassuring.” I gathered my notes. “I’ll email you the details for tonight. I’ll be at a nearby table to observe and provide feedback afterward.”

“Playing chaperone?”

“Playing wedding planner who doesn’t trust you not to blow this opportunity,” I corrected. “Destiny is highly sought after. Don’t waste her time.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted, then wandered back to the wall of profiles, studying them. “You really did put a lot of work into this.”

Something in his tone made me glance up. He sounded genuinely impressed, maybe even a little touched.

“It’s my job,” I said simply. “I don’t do things halfway.”

“Clearly,” he murmured, then turned back to me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “I need your help with something else.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That depends entirely on what it is and whether it involves pretending to be engaged to you in any additional venues.”

“Nothing so dramatic,” he assured me. “I need a tuxedo for a charity gala this weekend. The Pediatric Cancer Foundation event at the Metropolitan Museum.”

That wasn’t what I had been expecting. “That’s not in our contract. Call a personal shopper.”

“I want your opinion,” he said. “You have excellent taste, as evidenced by this extremely thorough presentation, and a vested interest in making sure I look respectable for potential candidates who might be attending.”

“Flattery and logic in the same sentence,” I observed. “You must be desperate.”

“I’ll buy lunch,” he offered. “And we can discuss candidates simultaneously.”

“I can’t be bought, Mr. Burkhardt.”

“Everyone can be bought with the right food, Ms. Marcel. The trick is figuring out the currency.” He studied me for a moment. “You strike me as a sushi person. Precise, elegant, no unnecessary components.”

The accuracy of his observation was irritating. “Fine,” I conceded. “Two hours. Tomorrow. And we are discussing these women.”

His smile was triumphant. “Perfect. I’ll pick you up at eleven.”

“I’ll meet you there,” I countered. “Text me the address.”

“Always maintaining boundaries,” he noted. “Admirable but ultimately futile. I’m very good at getting past defenses, Ms. Marcel.”

“And I’m very good at maintaining them, Mr. Burkhardt,” I replied. “It’s why I’m still in business after my ex-fiancé tried to destroy my reputation along with my heart.”

His expression shifted to something more serious, the playfulness vanishing in an instant.

“This Austin sounds increasingly like someone who deserves a visit from my security team,” he said, his voice suddenly hard with an edge I hadn’t heard before.

“Maybe a long, private conversation about how to treat women properly.”

I stared at him, stunned not just by the shift in his demeanor but by the information he had. “How do you know his name? I never told you his name.”

Callan had the grace to look slightly abashed, though the hardness remained in his eyes. “I may have had Erika do some background research. Purely for professional purposes.”

“You investigated me?” My voice rose as a complicated mix of emotions surged through me; outrage that he’d violated my privacy, a strange flutter that he’d cared enough to look into my past, and something darker and more vengeful at the thought of Austin facing consequences for what he’d done.

“I investigate everyone I work with,” he said with a shrug, though his expression remained unusually solemn. “Standard procedure.”

“That is absolutely not standard procedure,” I shot back, suddenly furious. “My personal life is off-limits. You had no right to dig into my past.”

“You’re right,” he admitted, surprising me again. “I overstepped. I apologize.”

The simple acknowledgment took some of the wind out of my sails, but I wasn’t ready to let it go. “Why would you even care about my ex?”

“Because he hurt you,” Callan said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And anyone who would choose someone else over you clearly suffered from a traumatic brain injury. Or deserves to experience one.”

“I... that’s not...”

“Just an observation,” he said, mercifully letting me off the hook. “For what it’s worth, his loss is currently funding my found-the-perfect-wedding-planner good fortune.” He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “Oh, and Anica?”

“Ms. Marcel,” I corrected automatically.

“Wear something blue,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’s your color.”

And then he was gone, leaving me standing in my ridiculous research room.

Strictly professional, I reminded myself firmly. This was strictly professional.

But as I returned to the women’s profiles, I mentally reviewed my closet for something blue to wear that night, and firmly ignoring Mari’s voice in my head singing “I told you so.”

Le Bernardin was exactly as intimidating as its three Michelin stars suggested.

All sleek surfaces, hushed conversations, and waitstaff who moved like professional ballerinas.

I arrived thirty minutes early, as was my habit for all important events, and was escorted to a small table with a perfect view of where Callan and Destiny would be seated.

I wore a midnight blue dress that I told myself I’d chosen for its professional cut rather than because Callan had suggested the color.

My hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon, and I’d limited my jewelry to simple pearl earrings that had been my mother’s.

The goal was to be invisible. Just another diner enjoying an overpriced meal while coincidentally observing the table eight feet away.

Destiny arrived exactly on time, looking every inch the polished socialite in a designer dress. Her dark hair was styled in elegant waves, her makeup flawless but understated. She was, objectively speaking, stunning.

She was also alone, because Callan was late. Again.

She checked her watch, took a small sip of water, and maintained a pleasant expression despite the passing minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.

I was about to text him a strongly worded message when he finally appeared, and my irritation immediately transformed into a different kind of discomfort.

He wasn’t wearing a suit.

Despite my explicit instructions, Callan had arrived at one of New York’s most exclusive restaurants in dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt that molded to his shoulders and chest that gave away way too much information for the anatomy beneath.

The damn man was pure muscle. The ma?tre d’ didn’t even blink.

Evidently billionaires operated under different dress codes than mere mortals.

What was most infuriating was that he somehow pulled it off, looking more compelling than the men in bespoke suits at neighboring tables. The casual attire highlighted his athletic build in a way that made several women openly stare as he crossed the restaurant.

Including, I realized with horror, me.

I quickly averted my gaze, pretending to study the menu as if the price of Dover sole was the most fascinating thing I’d ever encountered.

When I dared look up again, he was greeting Destiny with an apologetic smile and that particular brand of charisma that made people forget they were supposed to be annoyed with him.