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Wanted: A Bride (Preferably Breathing)

CALLAN

I wasn’t waiting for her.

Yet, I was pacing my penthouse office like a desperate contestant on The Bachelor waiting for the final rose?

I’d already rearranged the whiskey decanters three times, adjusted my tie seven times, and practiced my “casually leaning against the window” pose twice—once with hands in pockets, once with arms crossed.

I settled on hands in pockets. Arms crossed looked too defensive, according to the body language book I definitely skimmed rather than read.

“Mr. Burkhardt, Ms. Marcel has arrived downstairs,” my assistant’s voice announced through the intercom. “Security is escorting her.”

“I told them to send her straight up,” I replied, annoyed at the delay. “Not interrogate her like she’s smuggling nuclear launch codes in her wedding planner binder.”

“Apparently there was some... confusion about her appointment.”

“Let me guess. Rick thinks she’s either an escort or a corporate spy?”

“Actually, he asked if she was here about the housekeeping position.”

I nearly choked. “He did not.”

“She was... not amused.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I probably sprained an ocular muscle.

My head of security, Rick, had a tendency to treat every woman under forty who entered the building after hours as a potential threat to either my virtue or my intellectual property.

His paranoia was usually an asset. Tonight, it was making me contemplate a career change for him. Perhaps as a human doorstop.

“Tell him I’ll personally ensure his next performance review is conducted by my grandmother after I’ve told her he made her snickerdoodle recipe ‘too dry.’”

“Already handled, sir. I informed him that sexual harassment lawsuits are significantly more expensive than whatever you’re paying Ms. Marcel.”

Of course she had. Erika had been my executive assistant for six years, ever since I’d poached her from a rival tech firm by tripling her salary and offering stock options that had since made her wealthy enough to buy a new car each month.

She stayed, she claimed, because “someone has to keep you from becoming a complete megalomaniac, and the health insurance covers therapy.”

I glanced at my watch. 10:48 PM. Ms. Marcel was impressively punctual for someone summoned to a penthouse by a stranger at this hour. Most people would have waited until morning, sent a proxy, or called the police.

But then, Anica Marcel wasn’t most people, according to my research.

Before the call, I’d had Erika compile a thorough profile.

Ms. Marcel was a fashion merchandising major who’d pivoted to event planning after planning her sorority’s charity galas.

She’d launched her own wedding planning business five years ago with her college roommate.

Now, she was one of the most sought-after planners in Manhattan, with a reputation for turning disaster weddings into magazine-worthy events.

Also apparently immune to creepy late-night penthouse invitations from billionaires, which either made her exceptionally professional or exceptionally na?ve. I was betting on the former.

Exactly what I needed.

I straightened my tie in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling windows, admiring both my perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit and the glittering Manhattan skyline behind me.

I’d chosen this building for my headquarters specifically for this view.

A constant reminder of how far I’d come from the cramped Queens apartment.

The elevator doors slid open, and I turned, knowing exactly how good I looked in silhouette. I’d perfected the move in my bathroom mirror at age sixteen and had been deploying it strategically ever since.

However, I nearly forgot the entire speech I’d prepared.

Anica Marcel was not what I’d expected. The wedding planners I’d encountered at friends’ weddings tended to be either aggressively cheerful middle-aged women who called everyone “honey” or nervous twentysomethings with clipboards and visible stress hives.

She was neither.

She stood in my elevator like she owned it.

Dark hair pulled back in a knot so tight it looked like it was holding up not just her hair but possibly her entire skeletal structure.

A black pencil skirt and matching blazer that somehow managed to be both strictly professional and distractingly flattering.

Killer heels that brought her to just below my eye level and looked sharp enough to double as murder weapons in a pinch.

And an expression that said she’d already calculated sixteen ways to efficiently dispose of my body if necessary.

I liked it. I liked it more than I should have.

“Ms. Marcel,” I said, stepping forward with my hand extended and what People magazine had once called my “devastatingly charming” smile. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

She assessed my hand as if it might be concealing a joy buzzer before shaking it firmly. No lingering touch, no demure smile. Just business. It was like shaking hands with a particularly attractive contract lawyer.

“Mr. Burkhardt,” she replied, her voice cool and composed. “Your five minutes start now.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I believe I offered a consultation fee for significantly longer than five minutes.”

“The fee buys you thirty minutes. But you have five to convince me this isn’t a waste of both our time.” She glanced pointedly at her watch, a modestly expensive timepiece that looked like it could survive a nuclear blast. “Four minutes, forty-three seconds.”

God, she was refreshing. After a day of meetings where everyone nodded at my most half-baked ideas like I was announcing the cure for cancer while simultaneously solving world hunger, her unfazed demeanor was practically an aphrodisiac.

“Drink?” I asked, gesturing toward the bar cart I’d specifically positioned to catch the light in a way that made the crystal decanters look like they contained liquid gold instead of overpriced alcohol.

“No, thank you.”

“Not even to make this conversation more tolerable?” I moved to the crystal decanter of thirty-year-old Macallan. “I assure you, it’s excellent. Aged longer than most of my relationships.”

“I don’t drink with clients until after I’ve saved their wedding,” she replied like a pre-recorded customer service message. “Water would be fine.”

I poured her a Fiji water. Of course I stocked Fiji water, imported directly from Fiji on boats made of sustainable bamboo or whatever made rich people feel less guilty about bottled water, and handed it to her, deliberately letting our fingers brush.

Most women would have at least blinked at the contact.

She might as well have been accepting a tax form.

“Now,” she said, not bothering to sit despite my gesture toward the sofa. “About this wedding.”

“Right to business. I appreciate efficiency.” I took a sip of my scotch, enjoying the slow burn and the knowledge that each sip cost roughly the same as a community college textbook. “I need a wedding. A perfect wedding. In three months.”

She pulled a small notebook from her bag and clicked a pen. “Budget?”

“Unlimited.”

Her pen paused. “Everyone has a budget, Mr. Burkhardt.”

“I don’t.”

“Even billionaires have finite resources,” she countered. “Let’s say seven figures and refine from there.”

I fought a smile. She wasn’t impressed by money. Or at least pretended not to be. She might be the first person in Manhattan who didn’t immediately calculate my net worth upon meeting me and adjust their behavior accordingly. Another point in her favor.

“Fine. Initial budget of nine million, with flexibility for the right elements.”

She nodded, making a note. I tried to peek at her handwriting but couldn’t see past her expertly positioned arm. For all I knew, she was writing “pretentious rich guy” with a series of exclamation points.

“Venue preferences?”

“I’m getting married at the Rhodes Estate.”

“Great, so you’ve already booked it then.”

“No.”

Her brows furrowed in a cute way that made her look like a petulant child. “No?”

I held up my scotch glass and nodded. “Nope.”

“Then how do you know you’re getting married there?”

Shrugging, I smirked at her. “Because it’s not optional. I’m getting married there; I just haven’t booked the venue. Not my job.” I winked at her. She returned it with a scowl.

“I’ll note it here, but most venues don’t book this late. Three months will be tricky.”

“I’m sure you can handle it, Ms. Marcel.” I swirled my glass and raised an eyebrow. “You are the best, aren’t you?”

She didn’t answer my question. “Guest count?”

“Two hundred. Maybe two-fifty. Depending on how many cousins I discover once the invitations go out.”

“Theme or style?”

“Tasteful. Nothing garish. I’d defer to your expertise on the details.” I paused. “Though I draw the line at releasing doves. After the incident at my college roommate’s wedding, I can’t look at white birds without flinching.”

She looked up from her notebook, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised in what might have been the barest hint of curiosity. I considered it a victory. “And your bride? What’s her style?”

I smiled my most charming smile. The one that had graced magazine covers and persuaded venture capitalists to hand over millions. The smile that had once caused a sommelier to drop an entire tray of champagne flutes. “That’s the interesting part. I don’t have a bride yet.”

Her pen froze mid-word. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t have a fiancée,” I repeated, watching her expression shift from professional interest to confusion. “We’re planning a wedding, bride not included.”

“So there’s another groom?”

I choked on my scotch. “No, I assure you, there will be a bride. I just haven’t found her yet.”

She stared at me for a long moment. Then she laughed. It was a genuine, surprised sound that transformed her face from merely attractive to outright beautiful.