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“Fair enough.” He returned to his book, seemingly content with silence.

After a few minutes of tense self-awareness on my part, I finally began to relax.

There was something about the rhythm of the waves, the warmth of the sun, and the absence of phone calls, emails, and wedding emergencies that slowly unwound the knot of anxiety I perpetually carried between my shoulder blades.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a day off,” I admitted, breaking the companionable silence.

Callan glanced up from his book. “Seriously? Not even a weekend?”

“Weekends are the worst, actually. Wedding season is year-round when you’re building a business. If I’m not at an actual wedding, I’m meeting with clients, or vendors, or working on marketing, or dealing with emergencies.”

“That sounds exhausting. Don’t you ever burn out?”

“Occasionally, but I love what I do. Most of the time, it doesn’t feel like work.”

“What about your family? Do they understand the crazy schedule?”

“My parents are actually pretty supportive,” I said. “They’ve been married for thirty-seven years and still act like newlyweds sometimes. I think that’s part of why I love weddings—I grew up seeing what a good marriage looks like.”

“Thirty-seven years,” Callan mused. “That’s impressive. What’s their secret?”

I considered the question. “They genuinely like each other. They’re best friends first, partners second. And they never go to bed angry. That’s their big rule.”

“Never?”

“Never,” I confirmed. “My dad says life’s too short to waste it being mad at the person you love most in the world.”

“Wise man,” Callan said softly. “My parents could have used that advice. They specialized in multi-day silent treatments. The record was two weeks over a misplaced cufflink. Two entire weeks of frosty silence in a house so big they could literally avoid each other for days.”

“And that’s why you’re so skeptical about marriage?” I asked, venturing into territory we usually avoided.

He was quiet for a moment. “Probably part of it. Hard to believe in something you’ve never really seen work.”

“Same thing happened with your grandmother and grandfather, right?”

“My grandfather wasn’t exactly a stand-up guy. Gram’s amazing, but she ended up alone anyway.”

“And that’s why you think it’s all pointless?” I couldn’t keep the challenge from my voice. “Love, I mean.”

He turned to face me fully. “I think it’s a gamble. And I’m not convinced the potential payoff justifies the risk.”

“Hence the arrangement. All the benefits, none of the messy emotions.”

“Exactly.” But he didn’t sound as convinced as he usually did.

“And what if you’re wrong?” I asked. “What if there’s more to it than you think? What if love does exist?”

A shadow crossed his face. “Then I’ll have missed out. But at least I won’t have been hurt.” He dropped his gaze down to his book before meeting mine. “I don’t think I could handle that. At least not well.”

“For what it’s worth,” I said carefully, “I think you’re selling yourself short.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You’ve made yourself an image of a billionaire playboy, but I see through it.

You care about people. You have an incredibly adorable relationship with the strong woman who all but raised you.

You left a date to help me with a wedding crisis.

You brought me here to make sure I got a break.

Those aren’t the actions of someone incapable of genuine connection. You’re not just some rich fuckboy.”

He studied me for a long moment. “Or maybe I’m letting you see all of that because the smirks and cash don’t work with you, and it’s a more efficient way of seeing what you’re hiding beneath that coverup,” he suggested, but there was no conviction behind it.

“Uh huh. Sure,” I said, though I didn’t believe it. “Or maybe you’re just a decent human being who happens to be obscenely wealthy and irritatingly attractive.”

That made him laugh. “Irritatingly attractive, huh? Do tell me more about how my attractiveness irritates you. Is it the abs? The jawline? The rakish smile? I need specifics for my ego.”

And just like that, we were back on safer ground. The moment of vulnerability passed, replaced by our usual banter.

“It’s distracting,” I said, playfully flicking sand at him. “How am I supposed to maintain professional composure when you’re walking around looking like that?” I gestured vaguely at his physique.

“It’s a curse. Being this handsome is actually a burden. It’s like being a beautiful piece of art that no one bothers to read the little plaque next to.” He sighed dramatically.

“Oh, poor baby,” I mocked. “Life must be so hard for you.”

“It is,” he insisted. “Do you know how difficult it is to find shirts that fit both my broad shoulders and my narrow waist? It’s a constant struggle. Sometimes I have to settle for shirts that only make me look like a 9.5 instead of a perfect 10. It’s truly a tragedy.”

I laughed, rolling my eyes. “I’m playing the world’s tiniest violin for you right now. The saddest song ever composed specifically for the billionaire who can’t find shirts to properly showcase his perfect body.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a similar fashion; relaxed conversation interspersed with comfortable silences. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so at ease with another person besides Mari.

As the sun began to set, Callan suggested we head back to the villa for dinner. “Rhonda’s making her famous seafood paella,” he explained. “Trust me, you don’t want to miss it.”

“I should probably change first,” I said, suddenly self-conscious about dining in my swimwear.

“No need to get fancy. Island rules. Anything goes.”

But I changed anyway, choosing a simple sundress that was more revealing than I’d normally wear but still modest by most standards. It was one of the items Mari had snuck into my suitcase, and I hated to admit she’d been right about it being perfect for the setting.

When I arrived at the main villa, I found Callan on the expansive patio, mixing drinks at an outdoor bar. He’d changed into linen pants and a loose white shirt, looking like he’d stepped out of a luxury travel advertisement. Or possibly my most inconvenient, distracting daydreams.

“Perfect timing,” he said, glancing up. “I was just making us some island specialties.” He gestured to the colorful concoctions he was preparing. “Don’t worry, they’re stronger than they look.”

“Is that a warning?” I asked, accepting the vibrant blue drink he handed me.

“Yup. Careful with these. They’re like the tropical version of truth serum. Two of these and you’ll be telling me your deepest secrets. Three and you might start removing clothing. Not that I’m keeping track or anything. Here, take another one.”

I shook my head, rejecting the second one. I took a cautious sip. It was absolutely delicious; sweet and fruity on the surface, with a definite kick of rum beneath. “Tasty,” I acknowledged. “And potent.”

“Just like me,” he quipped, clinking his glass against mine with a wide grin.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Part of my charm.”

Rhonda served us dinner at a table overlooking the water, with the sunset painting the sky in spectacular shades of pink and orange. Her paella was indeed amazing.

As we ate, Callan kept our glasses filled with his “island specialties,” which seemed to get stronger with each iteration. By the time we’d finished the main course, I was feeling pleasantly warm and significantly less inhibited than usual.

“This is amazing,” I said, gesturing broadly at the setting. “All of it. The food, the view, the... everything. Even you’re not so bad, for a client who’s probably breaking at least sixteen professional ethics guidelines by bringing me here.”

Callan smiled, seeming pleased by my enthusiasm. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. It’s nice to share this place with someone who appreciates it.”

“So you really haven’t brought anyone else here?” I asked, frowning at my drink when the straw had no more liquid to suck up. “No supermodels? No Hollywood starlets? No tech heiresses? No one else has experienced the full Callan Burkhardt private island experience?”

“Just the guys, once,” he confirmed. “And they spent most of the time seeing who could jump from the highest point into the pool without dying. Not exactly the sophisticated island experience I was going for.”

“And what experience are you going for with me?” The question slipped out before I could censor it.

His gaze met mine, surprisingly serious. “Honestly? I just wanted to see you relax. You’re always so... contained. Even at the wedding expo, even in crisis mode, you maintain this perfect composure. I wanted to see what Anica Marcel looks like when she’s not planning someone else’s perfect day.”

“And?” I prompted, caught somewhere between flattered and exposed. “What’s the verdict?”

“The jury’s still out,” he said with a small smile. “But I like what I’m seeing so far. Especially the part where you keep forgetting not to stare at my chest.”

“I do not—” I began, then caught myself looking exactly where he’d claimed. “Okay, fine. You have a nice chest. Congratulations. It’s very... chesty. But in my defense, you’ve been parading around half-naked all day. That’s basically entrapment.”

“Entrapment? So now I’m guilty of forcing you to appreciate my physique? Should I put on a potato sack to protect your professional virtue?”

“The potato industry doesn’t deserve that kind of publicity. Your abs would probably make potato sacks the new fashion trend, and then what would potatoes be stored in? You’d cause a worldwide agricultural crisis.”

He laughed, looking genuinely delighted by my nonsense. “I’ve never had my abs described as a potential threat to global agriculture before. I’m flattered.”

“Well, keep the tropical truth serum coming, and you might see more than you bargained for,” I said, holding out my empty glass.