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“Right away, Mr. Burkhardt,” the attendant replied with a warm smile.

“You have a ‘usual’ on your private jet,” I observed. “That’s not at all obnoxiously wealthy. Next you’ll tell me you have a preferred caviar for mid-flight snacks.”

“Would it help if I told you my usual is just cranberry juice?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t drink alcohol when I fly. Makes me woozy.”

That surprised me. “Cranberry juice? Really?”

“With a splash of seltzer,” he nodded. “Gram got me hooked on it as a kid. Said it kept bladder infections at bay.”

I couldn’t help laughing at that. “Bladder health. Very sexy topic for a private jet. Do you discuss urinary tract infections with all your female guests, or am I just special?”

“I’m full of sexy conversation starters,” he agreed. “Bladder health, tax shelters, the proper way to fold pocket squares. I’m basically a walking aphrodisiac.”

I was still laughing when Josie returned with our drinks; champagne for me and, sure enough, cranberry juice with seltzer for him. The champagne was, of course, perfectly chilled.

“So,” Callan said after we’d taken off, “ground rules for the weekend.”

“I thought the whole point was no rules,” I replied. “A break from structure and planning. A vacation from your wedding planner.”

“Fair point,” he conceded. “But I do have one request.”

“Which is?”

“No work talk,” he said firmly. “No wedding details, no bride hunting, no business expansion plans. Just... relaxation.”

I shifted uncomfortably, thinking of the bride portfolios neatly packed in my carry-on. “Define ‘work talk,’” I hedged.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You brought work, didn’t you?”

“I might have packed a few... resources,” I admitted. “Just in case.”

“In case of what? A sudden wedding emergency on my private island? A surprise bride candidate washing up on shore? ‘Help, help, I’m a perfect match for a billionaire and I’ve been shipwrecked on his private island! Good thing his wedding planner brought my compatibility profile!’”

“In case of awkward silence,” I said, feeling foolish now.

“Or if you changed your mind about the bride search. Or if I have a panic attack about being trapped on an island with a man who looks like you and need something work-related to focus on instead of your... everything.” I gestured vaguely at him, then immediately regretted it.

Callan shook his head, but he was smiling. “Anica Marcel, professional to the bitter end. Fine, you can keep your work. But it stays in your suitcase unless explicitly requested. Deal?”

“Deal. Any other rules?”

“Just one more,” he said, raising his cranberry juice in a toast. “Have fun. That’s an order.”

I clinked my champagne glass against his. “I’ll do my best, boss.”

His eyes lit up. “Boss? I like that. Feel free to call me that all weekend. ‘Yes, boss.’ ‘Whatever you say, boss.’ ‘Of course I’ll rub sunscreen on your back, boss.’”

“Don’t push it, Burkhardt,” I warned, but I was smiling. “Or I’ll start calling you ‘bladder health guy.’”

The flight passed more pleasantly than I’d anticipated.

Callan was easy company when he wasn’t being deliberately provocative, and I relaxed despite my earlier anxiety.

We played cards (he cheated shamelessly), watched a movie (he had terrible taste in comedies), and ate a lunch that put every first-class airline meal I’d ever had to shame.

By the time we began our descent, I’d almost forgotten to be nervous about the weekend ahead. Almost.

“Finally,” Callan announced as the plane touched down on what appeared to be a private airstrip. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

I peered out the window and gasped despite myself.

Crystal-clear turquoise water stretched as far as I could see, surrounding a lush green island ringed with perfect white-sand beaches.

It looked like a postcard come to life, or possibly a green screen background for a movie too beautiful to be real.

“This is your island?” I asked, unable to keep the awe from my voice. “The whole thing?”

“All 300 acres of it. I bought it on a whim after Kris said it couldn’t be done. Not my most financially sound decision, but definitely one of my favorites. It’s like the world’s most expensive ‘I told you so.’”

As we deplaned, the humid tropical air enveloped me. A gentle breeze carried the scent of salt and flowers, and the sun felt hotter.

“The villa is just up that path,” Callan said, pointing to a winding trail through lush foliage. “Don’t worry about the luggage. The staff will bring it up.”

“There’s staff?” I asked. “Here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Just Titus and Rhonda,” he explained as we walked.

“They manage the place when I’m not here, which is most of the time.

They live on the other side of the island and are basically self-sufficient.

They’ll make our meals and keep things running, but otherwise, they’ll stay out of our way. I told them we wanted privacy.”

The way he said “privacy” sent a little shiver down my spine. “That’s... thoughtful,” I managed.

“I figured you’d appreciate not having an audience,” he said. “You seem like someone who values her space.”

He’d read me correctly, which was both gratifying and unsettling. I wasn’t used to clients, to anyone, really, paying such close attention to my preferences.

The path opened up to reveal what Callan had described as a “villa” but what I would have called a small luxury resort designed by someone with unlimited funds and excellent taste.

The main building was a stunning blend of modern architecture and natural materials, with wide windows that faced the ocean and an infinity pool that seemed to merge with the sea beyond.

“This is...” Words failed me.

“Home away from home. Though I’ve only been here a handful of times. Never had anyone to share it with, aside from the guys once for a weekend that none of us fully remember. Kris ended up with a tribal tattoo he can’t explain and Morgan lost an eyebrow.”

Something about that admission, that he’d never brought any other women here, made my stomach do a strange little flip.

“Let me show you to your quarters,” he continued. “I thought you’d prefer the guest house to a room in the main villa. More privacy.”

The guest house turned out to be a charming bungalow set slightly apart from the main building, with its own small patio overlooking the water.

Inside was a spacious bedroom, a luxurious bathroom with a soaking tub positioned to take advantage of the ocean view, and a small living area with comfortable furniture and a fully stocked bookshelf.

“This is perfect,” I said, genuinely touched by his consideration. “Thank you.”

“Rhonda stocked the fridge with snacks and drinks. There’s a phone by the bed if you need anything. Just dial one for the main house.”

As I explored the bungalow, I noticed little touches that seemed suspiciously personalized; my favorite brand of sparkling water in the fridge, a selection of thrillers on the bookshelf (my guilty pleasure reading), and even a yoga mat rolled up in the corner, as if someone had anticipated my morning routine.

“How did you know I like these things?” I asked, holding up a book by my favorite author.

Callan grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. “I might have asked Devonna a few questions. For hospitality purposes only.”

“You interrogated my assistant about my preferences?”

“Interrogated is a strong word,” he protested. “I merely inquired about certain details that might make your stay more comfortable. No waterboarding was involved. Though I did have to bribe her with fancy coffee.”

I should have been annoyed at the invasion of privacy, but I was oddly touched. No one had ever gone to such lengths to make me comfortable before.

“Well, thank you. It’s... very thoughtful.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he replied. “I can be thoughtful when properly motivated.”

“And what’s your motivation here?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Something flickered in his eyes. “I want you to enjoy yourself, Anica. You deserved a break even before the sprinkler incident. Now you’ve earned a medal of honor and possibly sainthood.”

I laughed, relieved by the shift to lighter territory. “So this island is my medal?”

“Consider it a loaner medal,” he corrected with a grin. “I’m still quite attached to it.”

“Duly noted.”

“I’ll let you get settled,” he said, moving toward the door. “Meet me at the main house when you’re ready. No rush.”

This was not normal client behavior. This was not normal anything.

By late afternoon, I’d changed into my sensible black one-piece (hidden beneath a cover-up that provided maximum skin coverage) and made my way to the beach. Callan was already there, stretched out on a lounge chair with a book, wearing nothing but swim trunks.

I’d seen attractive men before. I’d even seen Callan in images without a shirt on.

But nothing had prepared me for the reality of Callan Burkhardt shirtless in person.

His chest and abs looked like they’d been sculpted by an artist with a particular appreciation for the male form.

His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and a tantalizing trail of dark hair disappeared into his swim trunks.

I forced my eyes upward, only to find him watching me.

“See something you like?” he asked, because of course he’d noticed me staring.

“Just making sure you’re wearing sunscreen,” I replied with as much dignity as I could muster. “Skin cancer is no joke, even for billionaires. Melanoma doesn’t care about your bank account.”

“How considerate.” He patted the lounge chair beside him. “Join me? The view is spectacular.”

He wasn’t wrong. The beach was pristine, the water a shade of blue I’d previously only seen in heavily filtered Instagram photos. I settled onto the chair, careful to maintain my cover-up’s strategic coverage.

“You’re not swimming?” he asked, nodding at my outfit.

“Maybe later,” I hedged. “Just enjoying the view for now.”