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Anica’s lips curved into a smile. “So the baking expertise extends to roast chicken as well?”

“I’m a man of many talents,” I said, winking at her. “Baking, roasting, grilling. I’ve been known to sauté once in a while. Really, I’m basically one cooking show away from being the next Gordon Ramsay, but with better hair and fewer anger management issues.”

“And more modesty, clearly,” Anica replied raising an eyebrow.

“Modesty is overrated,” I shrugged. “Especially when you’re as good as I am. At cooking,” I added hastily when Gram raised an eyebrow. “I meant cooking.”

“Of course you did, dear,” Gram patted my arm. “Cal could have been a chef if he hadn’t been so determined to make all that money,” she said to Anica. “Come, I’ll show you around while he finishes in the kitchen.”

I watched them walk away, Gram already launching into what was undoubtedly the first of many embarrassing stories. I was so screwed.

Retreating to the kitchen, I checked the chicken. It was perfect, because I’m not an amateur. I finished the sides and poured myself a generous scotch. Gram had already made it clear that I would need help to get through the evening.

When I returned to the living room twenty minutes later, I found Anica and Gram sitting on the sofa, heads bent over what appeared to be a photo album.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

“—and this is him at his eighth-grade science fair,” Gram was saying. “He built a program that could predict stock market patterns. The teachers thought he’d bought it until he explained the algorithm.”

“That’s impressive,” Anica said, grinning. “Did it work?”

“Well enough that I turned it into my first app at sixteen,” I said, making my presence known. “Though I believe I was wearing significantly more flattering pants at the time.”

“I don’t know,” Anica mused, studying the photo. “The high-waters have a certain charm. Very ‘floods are coming but I’m going to save the economy first.’”

“They were not high-waters,” I protested. “I was growing too fast for Gram to keep up with pants that fit.”

“He was a weed,” Gram agreed. “All limbs and no coordination. He once tripped over his own feet and knocked over an entire display of peanuts at the store.”

“I was twelve!”

“Thirteen,” Gram corrected, ignoring my protest. “And it wasn’t the first time.”

Anica laughed. “I’m having trouble picturing Callan as anything but perfectly composed.”

“Oh, he cultivated that later,” Gram waved dismissively. “After the Great Science Camp Disaster.”

“We don’t need to discuss?—”

“He tried to impress a girl by creating a small controlled explosion,” Gram continued without mercy. “Set his eyebrows on fire and singed off half his hair. Had to wear a baseball cap for the rest of the summer.”

“I was demonstrating a chemical reaction,” I corrected. “The fire was an unintended side effect. And for the record, she was very impressed. We dated for three whole weeks after that, which is practically marriage in fourteen-year-old years.”

“Until she dumped you for the boy with the skateboard,” Gram reminded me.

“The douche,” I muttered, wrinkling my nose. “In my defense, I couldn’t skateboard because of my delicate ankles.”

“You couldn’t skateboard because you were terrified of falling and looking uncool,” Gram corrected.

“Semantics.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Norbert!” Gram called. “Bring the swimming photo!”

Pure horror filled my chest. “Gram, no.”

“Gram, yes,” she replied with an innocent smile that wouldn’t have fooled a toddler.

Norbert appeared too quickly, carrying a framed photograph that I’d been trying to “accidentally” break for years.

“Traitor,” I muttered to him as he passed by. He gave a small shrug. “Hid the photo my ass,” I growled.

“Thank you, Norbert.” Gram accepted the photo. “Now, Ms. Marcel, this is my personal favorite. Callan, age six, decided he was a merman and needed to practice for his ocean life.”

She handed the photo to Anica, whose eyes widened.

There I was, age six, in the massive claw-foot bathtub, wearing nothing but a homemade “merman tail” fashioned from what appeared to be green garbage bags and aluminum foil.

My hair was slicked back, my chest puffed out, and I was holding a plastic fork as a “trident.”

“Aw, look at the little merman. So cute,” Anica said with her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

“The fork really sells it,” I deadpanned.

“Nothing says ‘fear me, underwater creatures’ like plastic cutlery. Though I maintain it was an avant-garde interpretation of Aquaman that was simply ahead of its time. If I’d been born a decade later, I could’ve been an influencer with that kind of creative vision. ”

That broke her restraint, and she laughed outright. “I don’t know what’s more impressive, the creative use of garbage bags or the fierce expression.”

“I was very committed to my undersea kingdom,” I admitted, smiling despite the mortification. There was something about Anica’s laughter that made the embarrassment almost worth it. “I ruled with an iron fork.”

“Dinner is served, madam,” Norbert announced from the doorway, saving me from further merman-related humiliation.

“Saved by the butler,” I said with perhaps too much enthusiasm. “Shall we?”

Gram rose with Anica’s help. “I have so many more photos to show after dinner,” she assured Anica, patting her hand. “Including his brief but passionate heavy metal phase. The eyeliner was... creative.”

“I look forward to it,” Anica replied, her gaze meeting mine with a mixture of amusement and absolutely unrestrained glee. “Though I’m not sure how I’ll maintain professional composure after seeing Callan in eyeliner.”

“Bold of you to assume you had professional composure to begin with,” I murmured as we walked to the dining room. “I’d like to point out that you’ve been laughing at me for a solid twenty minutes.”

“It’s not at you. It’s at six-year-old you. Completely different.”

“The distinction is noted but not appreciated,” I replied, pulling out her chair. “Though six-year-old me would be thrilled to know he’s making beautiful women laugh, even if it is at his shameless merman cosplay.”

A slight blush colored her cheeks as she sat down. “I’m sure six-year-old you had other priorities. Like perfecting your fork-wielding technique.”

“It’s all about the wrist action,” I demonstrated with a dinner fork.

Dinner proceeded with more embarrassing stories, including the time I tried to bake a cake for Gram’s birthday and confused salt for sugar (“It was the thought that counted, even if the execution was criminal”), my disastrous first attempt at driving her Bentley (“The rosebushes were never the same”), and my brief stint in a teenage garage band (“We were called Quantum Theory, for god’s sake, how was that not a red flag? ”).

Throughout it all, I watched Anica. She was different here, away from the office. More relaxed, less guarded. She laughed freely, asked questions, and seemed genuinely interested in the stories of my misspent youth. I liked it more than I should have.

“So,” Gram said as Norbert cleared the dinner plates, “Callan tells me you’re helping him find a bride.”

And just like that, the comfortable atmosphere shifted.

“I’m planning his wedding,” Anica corrected. “The bride selection is... collaborative.”

“Mmm,” Gram hummed, in that way that meant she wasn’t buying what you were selling. “And how’s that going? Has he been difficult? He’s usually difficult. Once refused to eat anything green for an entire year. I had to hide spinach in chocolate brownies.”

“I’m sitting right here,” I reminded her.

“Yes, dear, and being difficult about it,” Gram replied without missing a beat. “Now hush, the adults are talking.”

Anica bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “Mr. Burkhardt has very specific requirements.”

“Mr. Burkhardt?” Gram repeated, eyebrows raising. “So formal. He must be on his worst behavior.”

“My behavior has been impeccable,” I protested.

“He asked his first candidate about sexual preferences over dinner at Le Bernardin,” Anica informed Gram, the traitor.

Gram’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline. “Callan Anthony!”

“It was a test!” I defended myself. “I wanted to see if she was interested in me or just my money.”

“By asking about position preferences at a Michelin-starred restaurant?” Gram shook her head. “I raised you better than that.”

“No you didn’t.” I shook my head. “You used the phrase ‘tits the size of cantaloupes’ not an hour ago. If anything, you’re the bad influence and the reason I–”

“In his defense,” Anica interrupted, surprising me, “the woman in question did start the conversation with discussing his investment portfolio and real estate holdings. She failed the test, crude as it was.”

“Hmm.” Gram studied Anica with new interest. “And what kind of tests are you administering to these potential brides?”

“More professional ones,” Anica replied. “Background checks, compatibility assessments, personality profiles.”

“Very thorough,” Gram nodded. “And tell me, dear, how do you rate on these compatibility assessments with my grandson?”

I choked on my scotch. “Gram!”

“What? It’s a reasonable question.” Gram’s expression was pure innocence. “If she’s determining compatibility, she must have some metric.”

“Ms. Marcel is not being evaluated as a candidate,” I said firmly, wiping scotch from my chin. “She’s my wedding planner.”

“And a very good one, from what you’ve told me,” Gram agreed. “Though I wonder why you haven’t considered the obvious solution to your problem.”

“Which is?” I asked, though I already regretted the question.

“Marrying someone you actually like spending time with, rather than a stranger with good credentials.” Gram sipped her wine. “But what do I know? I’m just an old woman who’s been around the block a few times.”

“You’ve been around the block so many times they named it after you,” I muttered.

“Cheeky,” Gram said without heat. “Ms. Marcel?—”

“Anica, please,” Anica interrupted.