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I couldn’t hear their conversation from my position, but I could observe their body language.

Destiny was clearly charmed despite his tardiness and inappropriate attire, leaning forward slightly and laughing at something he said.

Callan was... harder to read. He smiled and maintained eye contact, asked questions that made her animate in response, but something about his posture suggested he wasn’t fully engaged.

Their appetizers arrived, and I forced myself to at least pretend to eat my own meal while keeping an eye on their interaction. Things seemed to be going well, until suddenly Destiny’s expression shifted from warm engagement to shock, then barely concealed outrage.

I couldn’t hear what Callan had said, but based on Destiny’s face, it was wildly inappropriate. She recovered quickly, her social training evidently kicking in, but the warmth had vanished from her expression.

The rest of the meal continued in increasingly strained politeness.

By dessert, they were essentially two strangers occupying the same table, with Destiny checking her phone with increasing frequency and Callan looking completely unbothered by the deterioration of what should have been a promising match.

When they finally parted ways outside the restaurant—Destiny leaving in a black sedan with a perfunctory air kiss that didn’t come within six inches of Callan’s cheek—I was seething. I waited until her car had disappeared into traffic before approaching him.

“What the hell was that?” I demanded, not caring that we were standing in front of one of New York’s most prestigious restaurants.

“Dinner,” he replied, shrugging. “Excellent sea bass, though the wine pairing was a bit conventional.”

“You know what I mean,” I said, lowering my voice as a couple passed us. “You deliberately sabotaged that meeting. Destiny was perfect.”

“On paper,” he agreed. “In person, not so much.”

“She’s intelligent, accomplished, beautiful?—”

“And exclusively interested in my net worth,” he finished. “Did you know her first three questions were about my investment portfolio, my real estate holdings, and whether I had a prenup requirement?”

That gave me pause. “She’s financially minded. It’s her background.”

“She’s a gold digger with an MBA,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“So you decided to torpedo any chance by saying, what, exactly? What did you say that made her look like she’d swallowed a lemon?”

He glanced down, suddenly fascinated by his shoes. “I may have asked about her sexual preferences. In somewhat explicit terms.”

“You what?” I nearly screeched, then lowered my voice again when a passing woman gave us a concerned look. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I needed to test her authenticity,” he said, as if this were a perfectly reasonable explanation. “I wanted to see if she was interested in me as a person or just as a bank account.”

“By asking about her sexual preferences? At Le Bernardin?” I was practically vibrating with fury. “That wasn’t a test, it was sexual harassment.”

“Technically, it was a question about personal compatibility,” he argued. “An important factor in any marriage.”

“What exactly did you ask her?” I demanded, morbidly curious despite myself.

He hesitated, then leaned in slightly. “I asked if she was comfortable with the fact that I like to be tied up occasionally and spanked while being called ‘naughty little trust fund baby.’”

I choked on nothing but air. “You did not .”

“I did,” he confirmed, looking far too pleased with himself. “Her exact response was to inform me that she only engages in ‘normal, dignified sexual activities appropriate to people of our station.’”

“Oh my god,” I groaned, mortification warring with a completely inappropriate urge to laugh. “You’re impossible. Absolutely impossible.” I turned to walk toward the parking area where I’d left my car. “I cannot believe you.”

“Well, I actually like to do the tying up. But I don’t mind being spanked once in a while.” He fell into step beside me. “What can I say? I’m selective. If I’m doing this ridiculous thing, I at least want someone real who cares about more than just my money.”

“I spent a week trying to find the perfect candidate, who you then insulted with inappropriate questions about being a ‘naughty little trust fund baby’!” I fumbled in my purse for my keys, dropping them in my agitation.

We both bent to retrieve them at the same time, our hands colliding. I jerked back as if burned, while he calmly picked them up and held them out to me, his fingers deliberately brushing against my palm as he placed them there.

“I’m sorry for not being clearer about my requirements,” he said, his voice surprisingly sincere. “You did excellent work. Destiny simply wasn’t right.”

The genuine apology took some wind out of my sails. “Fine. But next time, just say you’re not interested. Don’t ask invasive sexual questions to drive them away.”

“Deal,” he agreed easily. “Though I maintain that sexual compatibility is a valid consideration in marriage.”

“There are appropriate times and places for those discussions,” I informed him. “A first meeting at a Michelin-starred restaurant is neither.”

“Noted,” he said, then added with a grin, “So where would be appropriate? Third date at a moderately priced bistro? Over coffee at a discreet café? During our tuxedo shopping tomorrow?”

“You’re incorrigible,” I sighed, but fought a reluctant smile. “And we’re still going shopping tomorrow, but only because I refuse to let you sabotage any more potential matches with your questionable wardrobe choices.”

“So you didn’t like my outfit?” he asked innocently. “I thought I looked rather good.”

The problem was, he had looked good. Unfairly good. The kind of good that had made it difficult to concentrate on my overpriced fish.

“You looked inappropriate for the venue,” I said primly. “Le Bernardin has a dress code.”

“Not for people who tip like I do,” he replied with a wink. “But I promise to wear a proper suit next time. If you promise to give me candidates with more personality than their investment portfolios.”

“I’ll adjust my parameters,” I conceded. “But you need to take this seriously. We have less than three months, and you just burned one of our best options.”

“I’m taking it very seriously,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Which is why I’m not settling for someone who sees me as a transaction.”

For a brief moment, I saw past the arrogant billionaire facade to something more complicated underneath.

“I’ll find you someone better,” I promised, unsure why I suddenly felt so determined to succeed for his sake rather than just for the contract.

“I know you will,” he said with confidence. “You’re the best, remember?”

“Eleven tomorrow,” I reminded him, opening my car door. “Don’t be late.”

“I’ll try to avoid duck-related traffic incidents,” he replied with a grin.