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“The opportunity to spend more time with you? Why would I enjoy that? It’s not like you’re intelligent, funny, beautiful, and capable of making me laugh harder than anyone has in years. Oh wait.”

She shot me a look that suggested she wasn’t buying my innocent act, but she didn’t pull her hand away from mine. I counted that as a win.

The bed-and-breakfast was exactly as I remembered it.

A quaint two-story house painted a cheerful yellow, with a wraparound porch dotted with rocking chairs.

The proprietor, Mrs. Albury, was a plump, grandmotherly woman with a perpetual smile and an accent that suggested she’d moved here from Cuba decades ago.

“Mr. Burkhardt!” she exclaimed when we walked in. “It’s been too long! And you’ve brought a friend this time!” She looked Anica up and down approvingly. “This one has meat on her bones. Good child-bearing hips.”

Anica made a strangled sound beside me as I fought to keep a straight face. “Mrs. Albury, this is Anica. We missed the last ferry and need a place to stay for the night. Please tell me you have a room available.”

“For you? Always,” she assured me, but her smile faltered slightly as she checked her book. “Although... I only have one room left. The honeymoon suite.”

Of course. Because the universe has a sense of humor, and apparently it’s twelve years old and raised on sitcom plots.

“That’s fine,” I said quickly, before Anica could protest. “We’ll take it.”

Mrs. Albury beamed at us. “You two remind me of me and my Gerold when we were young. So full of life and love. The way you look at each other—” she clasped her hands to her chest, “—it makes my old heart happy.”

“Oh, we’re not—” Anica began.

“Thank you,” I interrupted smoothly. “Anica’s a bit shy about public displays of affection. Very professional. Doesn’t want people to know she’s madly in love with me.”

Mrs. Albury patted Anica’s hand. “No need to be shy here, dear. Love is beautiful at any age. You hold on to this one. Men who look at women the way he looks at you are rare, like good mangoes in winter.”

Anica shot me a look that promised retribution, but she smiled politely at our host. “You’re very kind.”

After settling the payment and collecting a toothbrush and other necessities from Mrs. Albury’s stash for stranded travelers, we were shown to the honeymoon suite. It was charming in that old-fashioned B&B way—floral wallpaper, antique furniture, and a four-poster bed draped with mosquito netting.

One bed. A queen-sized bed that suddenly looked very small for two adults, one of whom was trying very hard not to think about the other one in a non-professional capacity.

“I’ll take the floor,” I offered immediately once Mrs. Albury had left us alone.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anica sighed, looking exhausted. “We’re adults. The bed is plenty big.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, giving her an out. “Because I’m perfectly happy to?—”

“Callan,” she interrupted. “After the day we’ve had, the last thing I need is to ruin it by feeling guilty about you sleeping on a hardwood floor. We can share the bed. Just... stay on your side.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, saluting. “I shall construct a pillow wall if necessary. Perhaps draw a line down the middle with lipstick. Create a DMZ of blankets. Hire tiny border patrol agents to enforce the boundary.”

“Or you could just be a normal person who respects boundaries,” she suggested.

“That sounds significantly less fun. But I accept your terms. No crossing the International Date Line of the mattress without proper documentation and approval from border control.”

The awkwardness of the situation hit us both as we stared at the room clearly designed for honeymooners, complete with rose petals scattered across the turned-down sheets and what appeared to be massage oils on the nightstand.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Anica announced, grabbing the toiletry kit Mrs. Albury had provided. “And pretend this isn’t the most uncomfortable situation I’ve been in since my cousin’s wedding where the best man proposed to the maid of honor during the toast and she said no.”

“Ouch,” I winced. “That’s rough.”

“He had a backup speech.”

I burst out laughing. “No way. That’s diabolical.”

“True story,” she assured me, disappearing into the bathroom.

I heard the shower start and tried very, very hard not to think about Anica naked and wet just a few feet away.

Instead, I busied myself removing the rose petals from the bed and turning on the ceiling fan to combat the island’s humid night air.

I also found and discreetly relocated a book titled “101 Tantric Techniques for Newlyweds” that Mrs. Albury had thoughtfully left on the nightstand.

When Anica emerged twenty minutes later, her hair was damp and she wore a button-down shirt, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. She’d rolled up the sleeves, and the effect was both adorable and unexpectedly sexy.

“Mrs. Albury said I could borrow this,” she explained, gesturing to the shirt and a pair of men’s boxers just visible beneath the shirt’s hem. “Apparently her son leaves clothes here sometimes. They’re clean,” she added hastily.

“Good to know,” I managed, my mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll, uh, take my turn now.”

I grabbed the remaining toiletries and escaped to the bathroom, where I took the quickest, coldest shower of my adult life. With no alternative, I had to put my shorts back on, deciding to sleep shirtless rather than in my sweaty, salt-crusted button-down.

When I returned to the bedroom, Anica was already in bed, perched as far to one side as physically possible without falling off. She glanced up from examining her phone, which still had no service, and her eyes widened slightly at my bare chest before she very deliberately looked away.

“Sorry,” I said, gesturing to my lack of shirt. “It was either this or put back on the shirt that smells like I enjoy marinating in seawater and sunscreen.”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, looking anywhere but at me. “Just, you know, stay on your side.”

“As promised,” I agreed, sliding into the opposite side of the bed, careful to leave as much space between us as the queen mattress would allow. “Good night, Anica.”

“Good night, Callan,” she replied, reaching to turn off the lamp.

The room plunged into darkness, illuminated only by slivers of moonlight filtering through the curtains. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of her presence beside me. Her breathing was too measured, too careful, to suggest she was anywhere close to sleep.

“This is ridiculous,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “I’m not going to be able to sleep if I’m this tense.”

“Want me to tell you a bedtime story?”

“I’d rather just... talk. Until I’m tired enough to fall asleep.”

“What do you want to talk about?” I asked, turning onto my side to face her, though I could only make out her silhouette in the dim light.

“Anything,” she replied. “Tell me something real. Something you don’t tell people in board meetings or at galas.”

I considered this for a moment. “I’m terrified of ending up alone,” I admitted, the darkness making honesty easier somehow. “Not just without a partner, but truly alone. No real connections. Just people who want something from me. Especially when I lose Gram.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Is that why you made the bet? To prove you don’t need real connection?”

“Maybe. Or maybe to prove I can control it. Keep it on my terms.”

“That’s not how it works. Real connection, I mean. You can’t control it. That’s what makes it real.”

“Says the woman who controls every single detail of every single day,” I teased.

“Touché,” she conceded. “We’re both control freaks in our own way.”

“Match made in heaven,” I joked, then immediately regretted it. “Sorry, that was?—”

“It’s okay. We’re good at pretending to be engaged, apparently. Mrs. Albury certainly bought it.”

“We should go into business together. Professional fake couple. We could rent ourselves out for awkward family gatherings. ‘Want to shut up your nosy aunt? Hire us to pretend we’re madly in love and about to elope to Vegas.’”

She laughed, the sound warm in the darkness. “I can see the Craigslist ad now. ‘One slightly used billionaire and his wedding planner available for rental. Good at pretending to be in love, terrible at catching ferries.’”

“Hey, missing that ferry was a strategic decision. All part of my master plan.”

“To what? Get stranded on an island with your wedding planner?”

“Exactly. Mission accomplished.”

She was quiet for a moment, and I worried I’d gone too far. “Callan...” she began hesitantly. “What are we doing?”

“Currently? Lying in bed having a conversation.”

“You know what I mean,” she said, and I could hear the frown in her voice. “This... whatever this is. The island, the boat trip, sharing a bed. It’s not normal.”

“No. It’s not.”

“So what is it?”

I took a deep breath. “I like you, Anica. More than I should. More than is professional or convenient or part of the plan. I like the way you laugh when you think no one’s watching.

I like how you plan for every disaster but still roll with the punches when the unexpected happens.

I like that you wear La Perla underwear under those business suits but pretend it doesn’t matter how you look.

I like that you hate cake but plan weddings anyway. ”

“You noticed my underwear?” she asked, her voice slightly higher than normal.

“I notice everything about you. It’s becoming a problem.”

She was silent for so long that I thought I’d completely misread the situation. Then I felt her hand find mine in the darkness, her fingers intertwining with mine.

“I like you too,” she whispered. “And it’s definitely a problem.”

“Because of the contract?” I asked, hardly daring to breathe.

“Because of everything,” she said. “The contract, the bride hunt, the bet. You’re literally paying me to find you a wife, Callan. That’s complicated on a good day. This is... messy.”

“I’ve never been good at staying inside the lines,” I admitted, squeezing her hand gently. “Even as a kid. Always coloring outside them, making my own rules.”

“Some rules exist for a reason. Professional boundaries protect both of us.”

“From what?” I challenged. “From feeling something real?”

She sighed, and she shifted closer. “From getting hurt. I can’t go through that again, Callan. Not after Austin.”

“I would never?—”

“You’re planning to marry someone else. That’s literally why we met.”

I had no good answer for that. She was right, of course. This whole situation was a mess of my own making.

“I don’t have to,” I said finally. “Go through with it, I mean. The bet. The arrangement. Any of it.”

“And lose thirty million dollars? Your friends would never let you live it down.”

“Some things are worth more than money or pride,” I said quietly.

Her hand was still in mine.

“We should probably sleep. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, though I made no move to release her hand, and she didn’t pull away.

“Good night, Callan,” she whispered.

“Good night, darling.”