Page 18

“Apparently,” I agreed, still baffled by this unexpected facet of the man that looked like just another rich playboy. “Next you’ll tell me you knit or rescue orphaned kittens in your spare time.”

“Only on Tuesdays,” he replied with perfect seriousness. “Mondays are for overthrowing small governments.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I baked with my grandmother growing up,” he admitted after a moment, his voice softer. “Every Sunday. It was our thing.”

“You baked?” The image of little Callan in an apron, standing on a stool to reach the counter, was almost too adorable to bear. My ovaries practically squealed.

“Still do,” he said, looking almost embarrassed by the admission. “When I can find the time. I make her birthday cake every year, no matter how crazy my schedule gets.”

“That’s... surprisingly sweet,” I said, meaning it.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he replied with a mock-serious expression. “Bad for my cutthroat CEO image. I’m supposed to eat the hopes and dreams of my competitors for breakfast, not homemade cinnamon rolls.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” I assured him, fighting a smile. “Though I might need photographic evidence. For verification purposes only.”

“Verification purposes,” he repeated skeptically. “Not blackmail?”

“I would never.” I placed a hand over my heart. “Though I’m sure the business tabloids would pay handsomely for shots of Manhattan’s Most Eligible Bachelor wearing oven mitts and covered in flour. ‘Breaking News: Billionaire Burkhardt Batters Batter.’”

“I see you missed your calling as a tabloid headline writer,” he said.

“It was my backup career if wedding planning fell through. ‘Planner Plots Perfect Prenup’ didn’t have the same ring to it.”

He laughed again, and I laughed with him. For a moment, we weren’t client and wedding planner, just two people enjoying each other’s company. It was... nice. Dangerous, but nice.

Eloise continued bringing samples, and we fell into a comfortable rhythm of tasting and discussing.

Callan’s expertise was genuine, and I deferred to his opinion on several flavor combinations.

It was oddly refreshing to not be the expert for once.

It also meant I didn’t have to eat as much cake.

God, I hated cake tastings. Why did everyone want cake at their receptions?

Cake was inferior to well-made cookies in my expert opinion. And I’d tried a lot of cakes.

“So,” he said as we waited for Eloise to get the final round of samples from the back kitchen, “have you narrowed down the next batch of bride candidates? After the Destiny disaster?”

And just like that, reality crashed back.

Right. The bride hunt. The whole reason we were sitting here tasting wedding cakes when there wasn’t even a couple to celebrate.

Just a billionaire with a bet and me with a million-dollar contract to find him someone to marry who wasn’t me. Not that I wanted it to be me.

“I’ve revised my approach,” I said, shifting back into professional mode. “Focusing more on personality compatibility and less on résumé perfection.”

“Good,” he nodded. “Because I meant what I said. I want someone real.”

“Define ‘real,’” I challenged him. “Because in my experience, most men say they want ‘real’ women until they actually meet one who challenges them or has opinions they don’t like. Then suddenly they want ‘real’ women who also happen to agree with everything they say.”

He considered this. “Fair point. But I do want someone to challenge me. Yes men get old fast. I want someone who gets me.”

“Way to be vague and a tad cliché,” I muttered, saluting him with my champagne flute before downing the rest of the shimmering liquid.

He stuck his tongue out at me like a child before continuing. “I mean , I want someone who would still want to be with me if all this went away.” He gestured vaguely, presumably indicating his empire.

“That’s a pretty big ask for a marriage of convenience,” I pointed out. “You’re essentially describing love, which you’ve made clear isn’t part of the equation.”

“Not love,” he corrected. “Love doesn’t exist.”

“Cynic.”

“Yes. Thanks for noticing.” He shook his head. “I want authenticity. Respect. My parents had an arrangement, not a marriage. It lasted twenty-three years before they divorced.”

“Twenty-three years?” I was surprised. “That’s way longer than most love matches. Those normally last maybe eight years.”

“They were excellent business partners,” he explained. “Terrible spouses. They maintained separate bedrooms, separate lives, only united for public appearances and financial decisions.”

“Is that what you want?”

“God, no,” he said with unexpected vehemence. “But I also don’t buy into the fairy tale. Marriage is a practical partnership with occasional sex thrown in to keep things interesting.”

The way he tossed out the word “sex” made heat crawl up my neck. I hoped he’d attribute my sudden flush to the warm room rather than the immediate mental image of what “keeping things interesting” might look like with him.

“That’s... quite the romantic perspective. I can see why women are lining up. Nothing says ‘marry me’ like ‘practical partnership with occasional sex.’”

“You’d be surprised how appealing honesty can be,” he countered. “Better than promising the moon and delivering a piece of cheese.”

“I thought you liked cheese.”

“Love it.”

“Then that’s not a metaphor I’d use for marriage, but whatever works for you,” I said, biting back a laugh.

“What about you?” he asked, leaning forward. “After all the weddings you’ve planned, what’s your take on what makes marriages work?”

I hesitated, surprised by the personal question. “That’s not really relevant to our professional relationship.”

“Humor me,” he insisted. “Consider it research for your bride hunt. I need to know what my wedding planner thinks constitutes a good marriage if she’s going to find me a wife.”

I sighed, considering how to answer. “The best couples I work with are best friends first,” I admitted finally.

“Everything else is just details. The fancy venue, the expensive dress, the perfect cake. None of it matters if there isn’t genuine affection and respect.

It’s about the years of ups and downs afterwards, not really the big party that starts it. ”

“That sounds suspiciously romantic for someone who approached my bride search with compatibility matrices.”

“I’m a professional. I can separate my personal views from my work. I can believe in unicorns while still recognizing they don’t belong in your wedding ceremony.”

“So you’re secretly a romantic,” he concluded, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Interesting.”

“I’m secretly someone who’s witnessed 347 weddings and can tell which ones will last before the cake is cut,” I corrected. “It has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with who’s still looking at each other instead of their phones during the reception speeches.”

“Still sounds romantic to me.” His smirk was infuriating. “It’s written all over your face.”

“The only thing written on my face is ‘regretting this conversation,’” I replied.

Before I could say anything else, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and his expression softened.

“Sorry, I have to take this. It’s my grandmother.” He stepped away from the table, answering with a warm, “Hi, Gram.”

I couldn’t help but watch as his entire demeanor transformed.

His shoulders relaxed, the perpetual hint of sarcasm left his voice, and his smile became genuine in a way I rarely saw.

The Callan Burkhardt who spoke to his grandmother was a completely different man from the one who flirted with every woman and strode into my office like he owned it already.

“Yes, I’m still coming on Sunday,” he assured her. “No, I haven’t forgotten... I’m actually at a cake tasting right now.” He glanced at me, then quickly looked away. “With the wedding planner... No, Gram, it’s not... That’s not...” His face reddened. “No, it’s not like that at all.”

I pretended to be fascinated by my cake notes, but I was straining to hear what could be making Callan Burkhardt, Manhattan’s most confident man, stammer like a teenager caught sneaking in after curfew.

“She’s very professional... Yes, she’s helping me with the whole thing...” His blush deepened. “Gram, please don’t... No, I’m not bringing her to... That’s not appropriate... She’s very busy...”

Whatever his grandmother was saying, it was clearly mortifying him. I bit my lip to keep from smiling, making a mental note to send his grandmother flowers. Or a fruit basket. Or possibly my firstborn child, depending on what exactly she was saying to make him so uncomfortable.

“Fine, I’ll ask her, but don’t get your hopes up.” He sighed deeply. “Love you too. See you Sunday.”

“Everything okay?” I asked innocently. “You look like someone just asked you to explain blockchain to a kindergarten class.”

“So...” He ran a hand through his hair, actually looking nervous. “My grandmother is insisting you come to Sunday dinner.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Sunday dinner. At her home. With me.” He winced. “She’s very persistent.”

“That’s absolutely not happening,” I said firmly. “Our relationship is strictly professional.”

“That’s what I told her,” he agreed. “But she’s 82 and has heart problems.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s emotional manipulation.”

“Is it working?” he asked hopefully.

“It’s about as subtle as a rhinestone codpiece at a funeral.”

It shouldn’t have been working. I had principles. Boundaries. A very strict no-personal-involvement policy with clients that had served me well since the Austin disaster. A policy that specifically prohibited meeting family members in non-wedding contexts.

And yet...

“What time should I arrive?” I heard myself say. God, I was a pushover.

His relief was palpable. “Five o’clock? I can pick you up.”

“I’ll drive myself,” I insisted, already regretting my decision. “And this is a professional courtesy only. Because it might help with the wedding plans to meet your family. And because I’m not a monster who gives octogenarians heart attacks.”

“Of course,” he agreed, though his smile suggested he didn’t believe me. “Just so you know, what Gram wants, Gram gets. Always.”

“I’m not intimidated by grandmothers,” I informed him. “I’ve faced down mother-in-laws who requested live tigers at rehearsal dinners. One bride’s grandmother insisted we release doves that she’d personally trained to form her granddaughter’s initials in flight.”

“Did it work?”

“Let’s just say the city of Newark is still finding random doves with tiny sequined vests,” I replied. “Your grandmother can’t be worse than that.”

“Vivian Burkhardt makes those women look like amateurs,” he warned. “Consider yourself warned. She once made the CEO of Goldman Sachs cry during a charity auction. With just her eyebrows.”

“Impressive,” I admitted. “But I have a secret weapon.”

“Which is?”

“I plan weddings for a living. I’m professionally trained to handle unreasonable expectations and emotional manipulation. It’s basically my superpower.”

“Your funeral,” he said cheerfully. “Wear something nice. She judges outfits more harshly than Tim Gunn on a bad day.”

Eloise returned with the final cake samples, but I was no longer thinking about frosting ratios and flavor profiles. I was wondering what exactly I’d gotten myself into by agreeing to Sunday dinner with Callan’s grandmother.

The one person, apparently, who could make the unflappable Callan Burkhardt flap.

“We should try the chocolate ganache last,” Callan suggested, returning to cake mode as if the grandmother invitation had never happened. “It’s the richest.”

“Save the best for last?” I asked, grateful for the change of subject.

“Always,” he replied.

“In that case,” I said, picking up my fork, “I better pace myself. Too much richness at once can be overwhelming.”

“Or exactly what you need,” he countered, his eyes meeting mine.