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“I am quite rehearsed. You have to be, when everyone’s watching. One wrong move, one bad decision, and suddenly you’re not the boy genius anymore. You’re the cautionary tale. The guy people reference in business school as ‘what not to do with your first billion.’”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It can be. There’s this constant pressure to never fail. To always have the answer. To be the smartest person in every room.”

“Are you?” she asked. “The smartest person in every room?”

“Usually. Until I met you,” I said with a grin, then sobered. “But that’s not the point. The point is that everyone expects me to be. And when your whole identity, your whole value, is built around being the guy with the answers...”

“You can’t ever admit you don’t know something,” she finished for me.

“Exactly.”

She nodded, understanding in her eyes. “I get that, in a way. Not the billionaire part, obviously. But the pressure to always have the answer, to always be in control. To make it look effortless even when you’re barely holding it together.”

“Wedding planning,” I guessed.

“It’s not just about making pretty centerpieces,” she confirmed. “It’s about managing expectations, emotions, family dynamics... all while making it look easy. If I plan everything perfectly, nothing can go wrong.”

“Except when it does anyway,” I pointed out. “Like sprinkler systems with a vendetta against wedding dresses.”

“That’s what the emergency kits are for. And the backup plans for the backup plans. And the emergency contact list for when the backup to the backup fails. And sometimes, apparently, billionaires who show up at the last minute to help save the day.”

“I do look dashing in a superhero cape. Though the spandex chafes in unfortunate places.”

“You’re very good at that,” she observed.

“At chafing? I mean, I wouldn’t say I’m good at it, more that I’m particularly susceptible to?—”

“At deflecting. Whenever the conversation gets too real, you make a joke.”

I blinked, caught off guard by her insight. “Force of habit. Vulnerability isn’t exactly encouraged in board rooms.”

“We’re not in a board room,” she pointed out, gesturing to the water.

“No,” I agreed, meeting her eyes. “We’re not.”

A seagull dive-bombed our table, snatching a piece of fish and breaking the spell.

“Feathered menace!” I shouted, waving my hands. “Go steal from the tourists with fanny packs! They expect it!”

Anica burst out laughing, and I joined her

We finished our meal and continued exploring the island, wandering through small shops and along the beach.

The afternoon slipped away without either of us noticing, lost in conversation that ranged from childhood memories to professional disasters to favorite movies (she loved old black and white films, I preferred action blockbusters with improbable explosions).

“Tell me something no one else knows about you,” I said as we walked along the water’s edge, shoes in hand, letting the warm water lap at our feet. “Something that would shock your clients.”

She thought for a moment. “I hate cake.”

“What?” I stopped walking, genuinely surprised. “But you’re a wedding planner! Cake is like... 30% of your job!”

She grimaced. “I know. It’s terrible. I can appreciate a well-made cake aesthetically, but I’ve never understood the appeal. Too sweet, too much frosting, too... cake-like.”

“This is scandalous. Like finding out a sommelier secretly drinks boxed wine, or a fashion designer who wears sweatpants at home.”

“I do wear sweatpants at home,” she admitted. “The rattiest, most comfortable ones you can imagine. With holes in inappropriate places.”

“Stop, I can only handle so many revelations in one day,” I clutched my chest dramatically. “Next you’ll tell me you have a secret collection of reality TV shows on your DVR.”

“All the Real Housewives franchises,” she confirmed. “And several baking competitions, ironically.”

I laughed. “You’re full of surprises, darling. What would you have at your wedding reception since you don’t like cake?”

Anica shrugged. “Cookies. All different sorts.”

“Favorite?”

“There’s this recipe my mom and I made. It’s an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie.

It’s amazing, but they have to be at least five hundred calories a cookie.

Those have to be my favorite.” She glanced sidelong at me.

“Your turn,” she said. “Tell me something no one knows about the great Callan Burkhardt.”

“I’m afraid of jellyfish. Terrified, actually. Like, full-on panic attack, grown man crying terror.”

“Jellyfish?” she repeated, clearly fighting a smile. “The billionaire tech genius with multiple homes and a private island is afraid of jellyfish?”

“Have you seen those things?” I defended myself. “They’re basically floating bags of poison with tentacles. No faces, no brains, just... ghostly death sacks drifting through the water waiting to sting you. They’re like nature’s way of saying ‘fuck you in particular.’”

She lost the battle with her smile, breaking into laughter. “Ghostly death sacks? That’s your assessment?”

“I stand by it. They’re an abomination. And don’t get me started on the immortal ones.”

“The what now?”

“There’s a species of jellyfish that’s technically immortal. They can revert to an earlier stage of development when injured or stressed. Basically, they’re unkillable poison ghosts of the sea.”

“How do you know so much about something you’re terrified of?” she asked, still laughing.

“Know thy enemy,” I replied gravely. “I have a Google alert set up for jellyfish scientific advancements. I need to be prepared for the inevitable jellyfish uprising. When they evolve arms and develop political aspirations, I’ll be ready.”

The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink. I checked my watch and realized we’d been wandering for hours.

“We should probably head back soon. Before it gets dark.”

Anica checked her watch and looked surprised. “I had no idea it was so late. Where did the day go?”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” I said, then grimaced. “God, that was cheesy. Please forget I said something so profoundly unoriginal. I have a reputation as a witty billionaire to maintain.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she promised. “I won’t tell anyone you occasionally resort to clichés like a normal person.”

We started making our way back toward the marina, but I walked slower than necessary, trying to prolong our time together.

“Let’s take a different route,” I suggested, gesturing toward a path that followed the beach. “The sunset should be spectacular from there.”

She agreed, and we strolled along the water’s edge, the dying sun casting long shadows across the sand.

“This is perfect,” Anica said softly, watching the play of light on the water. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“My pleasure,” I replied, and meant it. “I’m glad you agreed to come. Even with the hangover.”

“The hangover was worth it. Though I maintain those drinks of yours should come with a warning label.”

“’Caution: May lead to confessions about haunted vaginas’?” I suggested innocently.

She groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Shit, I was hoping you’d forgotten that part.”

“I forget nothing. Especially not creative metaphors about female anatomy. That’s going in my memoir. Chapter title: ‘The Wedding Planner and the Haunted House Between Her Legs.’”

“I will murder you and hide your body where no one will ever find it,” she threatened, but she was laughing. “I know at least three wedding vendors who would help me dispose of the evidence, no questions asked.”

“It would totally be worth it. Some stories are too good not to share with the world.”

We continued along the beach, watching in companionable silence as the sun touched the horizon, sending streams of golden light across the water. It was one of those perfect moments that seem to exist outside of normal time, suspended in a bubble of contentment.

So of course I had to ruin it by checking my watch and realizing I’d made a catastrophic miscalculation.

“Oh, shit,” I muttered, stopping abruptly.

“What’s wrong?” Anica asked, concern immediately replacing her relaxed expression.

“The boat. The last one back to my island leaves at 6:30. It’s 6:45.”

“So we missed it. We’ll just call for a water taxi or something, right?”

“That would be a great solution. If water taxis operated in this area. Or if there was reliable cell service to call one.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you telling me we’re stuck here? On this island? Overnight?”

“Unless you’re hiding a teleportation device in that very flattering outfit, then yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“But—that’s—we can’t—” she spluttered, her composure finally cracking, and I couldn’t hide my grin behind my hand fast enough. “This isn’t funny, Callan!” But a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Well, there’s a charming little bed-and-breakfast near the marina. We can stay there tonight, catch the first ferry back in the morning. It’s not ideal, but it’s an adventure.”

“An adventure. You and your adventures are going to be the death of me.”

“But what a way to go,” I said cheerfully, taking her hand and tugging her back toward the town. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Like an unplanned sleepover.”

“I have no toothbrush,” she protested. “No change of clothes. No—anything!”

“The B&B will have toiletries. And I’m sure we can find something for you to sleep in.

Worst-case scenario, you can borrow my shirt.

Apparently, they’re quite comfortable, and you already own my soul according to ancient shirt law, so what’s one more?

Soon you’ll have a complete collection of Callan Burkhardt body parts via clothing acquisition. ”

She groaned but allowed me to lead her back toward town. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”