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Isn’t That The Wedding Planner?

CALLAN

“ T o the untrained eye, this might look like a man having an existential crisis over neckwear,” I announced to my empty penthouse as I held two silk ties against my chest. “But what you’re actually witnessing is a billionaire who can buy small countries without blinking yet somehow can’t decide between two nearly identical strips of fabric.

Send help. Or a personal stylist. Or just shoot me and put me out of my misery. ”

I was talking to myself. Again. A habit I’d developed somewhere between making my first million and losing the ability to trust anyone’s opinion that wasn’t being paid for.

The tie in question—a silk Hermès in a shade that definitely wasn’t chosen because it reminded me of a certain wedding planner’s dress yesterday—hung limply from my hand, a victim of my indecision.

Which was ridiculous. I, Callan Burkhardt, did not do indecision.

I made billion-dollar deals with less contemplation than I was giving this piece of fabric.

I once bought an island in the Pacific after a fifteen-minute conversation.

Granted, I was slightly drunk and extremely competitive at the time.

Kris had said no one could just “buy an island on a whim,” and, well, I’ve never been good at being told what I can’t do. But still. Decisions were my thing.

I tossed the blue tie aside and grabbed a burgundy one instead. Much safer. Nothing to do with anyone’s eyes or dresses or the way certain people looked when they laughed at wedding expos while balancing cake samples.

Tonight was my second date with Angelina Mercy, Angie, and I was determined to focus on her.

She was perfect on paper. MBA. Spoke multiple languages.

Donated to all the right charities. Laughed at all my jokes, even the bad ones.

Especially the bad ones. And she was drop-dead gorgeous, with hair that somehow defied both gravity and humidity.

She was exactly what I’d asked for. The perfect candidate for my arrangement.

So why was I thinking about how Anica had nearly impaled herself with a pen when I mentioned my brother at the expo?

My non-existent brother. The lie had slipped out so naturally, and watching her reaction, the slight widening of her eyes, the twitch at the corner of her mouth as she fought a smile, had been satisfying.

Like finding money in an old jacket pocket, but instead of money, it was the knowledge that I could make Anica Marcel laugh despite her determined professionalism.

My phone rang, interrupting my mental wandering. The screen displayed a three-way call from “The Assholes.” I briefly considered ignoring it, but experience had taught me they’d just keep calling until I answered, possibly escalating to showing up at my door with alcohol and terrible advice.

“What?” I answered eloquently.

“Is that any way to greet your best friends?” Kris’s voice boomed through the speaker.

“The men who’ve stood by you through thick and thin?

The brothers of your heart, if not your blood?

The witnesses to your most embarrassing moments who have photographic evidence but have graciously not posted it on social media? ”

“The men who are about to lose thirty million dollars to me,” I corrected, putting the call on speaker as I continued getting ready. “What do you want?”

“Updates on the bride hunt,” Morgan chimed in. “Chance says you’ve found a viable candidate.”

“And we want details,” Chance added. “Specifically, is she real or are you hiring an actress to play the part? Because we all remember the fake girlfriend you invented for your grandmother’s Christmas party a few years ago.”

“That was a misunderstanding,” I protested. “The model really was supposed to show up. It’s not my fault her agent double-booked her with a yacht party in Monaco.”

“Uh-huh,” Kris snorted. “So this new woman, she’s flesh and blood? Has been observed by people other than you? Doesn’t disappear when you blink?”

“She’s very real,” I replied, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “Angelina Mercy. Runs a tech incubator for women-led startups. Great tits. Legs for days. I’m taking her out tonight.”

“Second date?” Kris asked.

“Indeed.”

“And she knows about the arrangement? The bet?”

“I’ve been transparent,” I said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. I had been clear that I was looking for a partnership rather than a love match. The specific details about the bet would come later. Like, after the honeymoon later. “She’s pragmatic about marriage.”

“Sounds perfect,” Morgan said, a note of suspicion in his voice. “Almost too perfect. What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” I insisted, adjusting my cufflinks. “She’s exactly what I wanted.”

“Bullshit,” Kris declared. “There’s something wrong with her. She has a third nipple. She’s secretly a spy. She collects her toenail clippings in little jars labeled by date. She believes pigeons are government drones. She only communicates in haiku on Thursdays.”

“Jesus, Kris,” Chance muttered. “That’s oddly specific. Something you want to share with the class?”

“Don’t kink-shame me,” Kris shot back. “My point is, no one’s that perfect. What aren’t you telling us?”

I hesitated, thinking of Angelina’s perfectly pleasant conversation, her appropriately timed laughs, her complete lack of challenge to anything I said. The way I’d found myself checking my watch three times during our first date.

“She’s just... fine,” I admitted.

“Fine?” Morgan echoed. “You don’t sound thrilled.”

“I’m not looking for thrills,” I reminded them. “I’m looking for compatibility. A strategic partnership. A business arrangement with occasional sex. Not a Disney movie.”

“Still,” Chance mused, “you should at least like being around her. Otherwise, what’s the point? You’ll be stuck with this person for years.”

“Unless you get a divorce,” Kris added.

“I do like being around her,” I insisted, though even to my own ears, it sounded defensive. “She’s gorgeous, intelligent, and successful. What’s not to like?”

“But does she make you laugh?” Chance asked. “Like, really laugh? The kind where you snort a little and then pretend you didn’t?”

An image of Anica’s face when I caught her falling from the chair flashed through my mind. The wide-eyed surprise, the momentary vulnerability, the way she’d felt in my arms. The undignified yelp she’d let out, followed by her determined attempt to regain her composure.

“Cal?” Morgan prompted. “You still there? Or did the question short-circuit your bozo brain?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”

“About Angie?” Kris asked.

“Anica,” I replied automatically, then immediately wanted to punch myself. Preferably in the throat. Hard enough to prevent further speaking.

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by three distinct reactions: Chance’s knowing “Hmm,” Kris’s gleeful cackle, and Morgan’s confused “Isn’t that the wedding planner?”

“Yup,” Kris supplied helpfully. “The one he can’t stop talking about. The one he’s apparently thinking about while getting ready for a date with his future wife. The one he’s definitely not secretly in love with. That Anica.”

“I don’t talk about her that much,” I protested. “And love doesn’t exist.”

“Dude, the last time we spoke, you mentioned her twenty-eight times. I counted. I made a little tally sheet. I was going to turn it into a drinking game, but I didn’t want to die of alcohol poisoning.”

“Fuck off,” I muttered. “She’s planning my wedding.”

“To a bride you’re apparently mixing up with her,” Morgan pointed out.

“I’m not mixing them up,” I said, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Kris snickered. “In my day, we just called it ‘wanting to bang your wedding planner instead of your future wife.’”

“As I said, fuck off,” I suggested in a fake pleasant tone.

“Seriously though,” Chance said, his voice taking on that annoying therapist quality he’d developed since getting happily married. “Maybe there’s a reason you’re thinking about your wedding planner while getting ready for a date with your potential wife.”

“Yeah, because I spent all day yesterday with her at a wedding expo,” I explained. “It’s still fresh in my mind.”

“Wait, you spent the day at a wedding expo?” Morgan sounded incredulous. “Voluntarily? Not at gunpoint? Not because someone threatened your dog? Not because it was the only way to deactivate a bomb strapped to your chest?”

“Her assistant was sick. She needed help.”

“And you, billionaire CEO with multiple companies to run, dropped everything to help her set up a booth at a wedding expo,” Kris summarized.

“Totally normal client behavior. I do that all the time. Just yesterday, I rearranged my accountant’s inner filing cabinet.

The day before, I gave my dentist a nice canal drilling. ”

“Shut up. I was being nice,” I insisted. “It’s a concept you might want to look into sometime.”

“I’m plenty nice,” Kris countered. “I just don’t confuse my dates’ names with my wedding planner’s, then get defensive when my friends point it out.”

“You’re married, so A. You shouldn’t be going on dates with other women, and B. I’m not defensive!”

Three skeptical silences greeted that statement.

“Look,” I said finally, “Anica is my wedding planner. Angie is a potential candidate for marriage. They both have names that start with ‘A’ that are conveniently five letters. They’re both lovely women.

And they’re two separate people fulfilling two separate roles in this arrangement. End of story.”

“If you say so,” Chance said. “Just be careful, man. Mixing business and pleasure never ends well.”

“I’m not mixing anything,” I insisted. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date to get to.”

“With Anica?” Kris couldn’t resist one last dig.

“Go to hell,” I replied in a fake cheerful tone, ending the call to the sound of their laughter.