Page 33

Two For The Honeymoon Suite

CALLAN

A haunted house. That was a new one. I could not wait to see if she remembered saying that.

The sun streaming through my bedroom windows reminded me it was morning, and morning meant facing Anica with the uncomfortable knowledge that I’d seen a side of her I doubted she ever intended to show.

I’d watched her walls crumble under the influence of my admittedly too-strong island cocktails, listened to her confess her attraction to me, and then, like some kind of deranged gentleman, tucked her into bed without taking advantage of the situation.

Who even was I anymore? And could I return this evolved version of myself for the original model? The new firmware update seemed to have disabled my “billionaire playboy with no moral compass” setting.

I glared at the ceiling. Anica had stared up at me with her bright eyes, telling me she thought about me “in the that way. The sexy that way.” Anica had begged me to kiss her. Anica had worn my shirt and declared it meant she owned my soul according to “ancient shirt law.”

Drunk Anica was adorable. Unfiltered. Real in a way few people ever allowed themselves to be with me. I grinned like an idiot. The woman who had been nothing but organization and pencil skirts had spent twenty minutes talking to me about her absent sex life.

Shit.

She was going to be pissed.

I had a feeling she’d probably remember the mortifying details and would rather swim with sharks than acknowledge any of it. Actually, knowing Anica, she’d have a laminated action plan for swimming with sharks. The woman probably packed a shark deterrent in a secret emergency kit.

I dragged myself out of bed, showered, and instructed Rhonda to prepare a hangover-friendly breakfast. Aspirin, coffee strong enough to wake the dead, and enough carbs to soak up whatever rum remained in Anica’s system.

I arranged everything on a tray, trying to convince myself this was just basic hospitality, not an excuse to see her first thing in the morning with bed-head and sleepy eyes.

I spent the walk to the bungalow rehearsing casual opening lines.

“Morning, how’s the head?” No, that sounded like I was inquiring about a blowjob.

“Sleep well?” Too loaded. “Remember declaring your vagina has cobwebs and asking me to kiss you?” Definitely not.

“How’s the haunted house? Any ghost evictions overnight?

” Tempting, but I enjoyed having all my limbs attached to my body.

I settled on a simple “Good morning” as I knocked on her door, balancing the breakfast tray in one hand.

I could’ve made it as a waiter. Maybe. Actually, I probably would’ve gotten fired for eating other people’s food.

The closest I’d come was serving drinks at a college party, which ended with me charging people five dollars to watch me do a handstand on a keg. Not exactly fine dining service.

After an extended pause, during which I imagined her hiding under the covers or possibly searching for an escape route through the bathroom window, the door opened to reveal Anica looking like someone who had made a series of questionable life choices, starting with accepting blue drinks from a man whose middle name might as well be “Bad Influence.”

Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, glasses emphasized her bloodshot eyes, and she wore a resort robe cinched tightly at the waist. My shirt from last night was clutched in her hand like evidence from a crime scene she was planning to burn.

“Is that coffee?” she asked, her voice hoarse and gravelly in a way that should not have been attractive but somehow was.

“And aspirin,” I confirmed, lifting the tray slightly. “And enough carbs to construct a small fortress. Or at the very least, a modest carbohydrate bungalow with a nice view.”

“You’re a saint,” she muttered, stepping back to let me in. “A saint who makes drinks that should be classified as weapons of mass destruction by the Geneva Convention, but a saint nonetheless.”

I set the tray on the small table by the window, sneaking glances at her as she shuffled across the room like a zombie in a luxury bathrobe.

Even hungover and clearly miserable, she was beautiful in that understated way that snuck up on you.

The way that made you think about what she’d look like waking up next to you every morning, not just on a tropical island after too many cocktails.

Stop it, Burkhardt. Client. Wedding planner. Professional relationship. The woman who is currently planning your wedding to someone else. Get a grip, preferably not on her.

“Sleep well?” I asked casually, immediately regretting choosing the one opening line I’d explicitly rejected in my mental rehearsal. Smooth, real smooth.

“Like I was hit by a truck filled with rum,” she replied, reaching for the coffee like it contained the elixir of life. “You?”

“Great. Perfect. Never better,” I said, sounding about as natural as a robot attempting human conversation for the first time. “Very... sleep-like. The sleep. That I did. Sleeping.”

Dear god, I sounded like someone had performed a lobotomy on my language center.

Worse. I sounded like Drunk Anica. I, Callan Burkhardt, notorious smooth-talker who once convinced a venture capitalist to invest twenty million dollars during an elevator ride, was stammering like a teenager asking someone to prom.

“Good. That’s... good.” She nodded, then winced at the movement. “About last night?—”

“Already forgotten,” I cut in, flashing my best reassuring smile. “Island rules. What happens under the influence of tropical cocktails stays under the influence of tropical cocktails. Like Vegas, but with more sand and fewer Elvis impersonators.”

Relief flashed across her face, followed by something that looked almost like disappointment before she masked it with another sip of coffee. “Right. Good. Thank you.”

“For what?” I asked innocently.

“For...” she gestured vaguely with her coffee cup. “You know. Taking care of me. Making sure I didn’t...”

“Fall into the ocean? Declare war on neighboring islands? Attempt to communicate with sea turtles using interpretive dance? Release all my exotic pets into the wild to start a new civilization?”

“Something like that.” She attempted a smile that turned into a grimace. “God, my head feels like it’s hosting a death metal concert. With a mosh pit. And possibly some kind of ritual sacrifice.”

“The aspirin should help,” I said, pushing the pills toward her. “And food. Even if you don’t think you want it, trust me. It’s like putting a sponge in a puddle of toxic waste. Necessary clean-up procedure.”

She dutifully swallowed the pills and took a tentative bite of toast. “I’m surprised you’re so chipper. You drank as much as I did.”

“Superior genetics,” I replied with a wink. “That, and years of practice neutralizing alcohol with late-night board meetings. Nothing sobers you up like trying to explain quarterly projections to investors in Tokyo at 3 AM while secretly being so hungover that even your eyebrows hurt.”

“Sounds thrilling,” she muttered.

“About as thrilling as watching paint dry on a tax form. During an audit. Conducted by the world’s most monotone accountant.” I agreed. “Speaking of thrilling activities, how would you feel about a boat trip today?”

She lowered her glasses enough to peer at me over the rims, her expression suggesting I’d just proposed we wrestle alligators while covered in barbecue sauce. “A boat. On water. Moving water. With my current hangover. You’re joking, right?”

“The fresh air will help. And there’s a neighboring island with a famous local market. Best conch fritters in the Bahamas. Plus, the boat ride is smooth. Like gliding on glass. Or sliding across a freshly waxed floor in socks, but with fewer bruises.”

“Unless there are waves. Which there are. Because it’s the ocean. Where waves live. Professionally. It’s literally their job to be wavy and make people like me feel like their stomach is trying to escape through their esophagus.”

“Minor detail. Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I left it in the bottom of whatever blue monstrosity you kept refilling last night. What time would we leave?”

“After you’ve finished breakfast and feel human again,” I promised. “No rush.”

She sighed, taking another bite of toast. “Fine. But if I throw up, that’s on you. Literally and figuratively.”

“I accept full responsibility for any and all vomiting scenarios,” I said solemnly, placing a hand over my heart.

“My rum, my rules, my cleanup duty. I’ll even hold your hair back.

I’m very good at it. I once helped Morgan through an unfortunate tequila incident that resulted in him proposing marriage to a potted plant. ”

That earned me a genuine smile, small but real. “You’re very strange for a billionaire, you know that?”

“I prefer ‘uniquely eccentric,’” I corrected. “It sounds more expensive. Like I’m not weird, I’m a limited-edition collectible human.”

“Of course it does,” she replied, shaking her head but still smiling. “Give me an hour to pull myself together?”

“Take all the time you need,” I said, backing toward the door. “I’ll be at the main house whenever you’re ready. No rush. I have several very important business calls to ignore while I stare at the ocean.”

I paused at the doorway, holding up my shirt that she’d set aside. “By the way, according to ancient shirt law, I believe you now own my soul. Just wanted to confirm that’s still in effect in the cold light of day. There’s usually a 24-hour return policy, but you didn’t keep the receipt.”

Her cheeks flushed an adorable shade of pink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied.

“Of course not,” I agreed. “Must be thinking of someone else who claimed ownership of my soul last night. Easy mistake. I lose track of all the people who own pieces of my soul. You, my grandmother, the barista who makes my coffee exactly right. It’s getting crowded in there.”