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Devonna says I should stop texting you, but she also put $20 in the “they didn’t do it” pool, so who’s the real enabler here?

The next two from Devonna weren’t particularly better.

Hope you’re enjoying the island. The Rickter-Bingly wedding has requested a last-minute change to their menu. Also, Mari has started a betting pool about your weekend activities that is highly inappropriate. I put twenty dollars on “mutual pining but no action.” Please don’t disappoint me.

P.S. If you did sleep with him, I’ll forgive you for making me lose the bet if you provide a detailed rating of his performance. For statistical purposes only.

I quickly shoved my phone back into my pocket before Callan could see the messages, but not before noticing he was frowning at his own screen.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Just catching up,” he replied vaguely, thumbs flying across his phone. “Angie’s sent a few messages.”

Right. The perfect candidate. The woman who actually fit his criteria, unlike the wedding planner who was currently fighting an inappropriate attraction to her client and losing badly. Like, surrendering-the-white-flag, waving-it-while-sobbing badly.

“That’s good. Is she eager to continue where you left off?” I asked, aiming for a neutral tone and landing somewhere closer to “slightly constipated sea lion.”

“Right. Yes,” he said, not looking up from his phone.

I hated myself for the disappointment that settled in my stomach like a lead weight.

What had I expected? That one night of hand-holding and confessions would make him abandon his plan?

That he’d suddenly declare his undying love for me instead of pursuing his arrangement with a woman who actually made sense?

“I should check in with the office.” I pulled out my own phone again and pretended to be absorbed in work emails. “Make sure no brides have committed felonies in my absence.”

The rest of the ferry ride passed in silence, each of us retreating into our respective digital worlds, the easy camaraderie of the past twenty-four hours evaporating like morning mist under the harsh sun of reality.

By the time we docked at Callan’s private marina, I’d recreated my professional walls back to their full height. Bulletproof. Impenetrable. Definitely not vulnerable to smiles or hand-holding or morning erections that could very well rearrange a woman’s insides.

On second thought, poor Angelina.

“I’ll have Rhonda prepare your things,” Callan said as we walked toward the main house. “The jet can take you back to New York whenever you’re ready.”

“The sooner the better,” I replied, keeping my tone businesslike. “I have client meetings tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Was it my imagination, or did he sound disappointed? “I’ll be back in the city on Tuesday. Should we schedule another bride candidate meeting then? Angie’s great, but I’m sure you have others lined up.”

“I’ll have Devonna set it up,” I agreed, the words tasting bitter. “I’ve narrowed it down to three promising options based on your previous feedback.”

“Looking forward to it,” he said, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

We parted ways at the main house, Callan heading to his office for what he claimed were urgent business calls, me retreating to the guest bungalow to pack.

An hour later, I was alone on his private jet heading back to New York, a strange emptiness settling in my chest that had nothing to do with altitude changes and everything to do with the man I was leaving behind.

“You’ve checked your phone fifty-four times today.”

I looked up from my desk—and yes, my phone—to find Mari leaning in my office doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised in an expression of supreme judgment.

“I’m expecting an important email from a vendor,” I lied, setting the phone down.

“And does this vendor’s name rhyme with ‘Fallan’?”

“I don’t know any vendors named Fallan,” I replied. “Though there is that new florist, Allen, who’s been unreliable with his quote for the Luca wedding.”

“Cut the shit, Anica,” Mari said, dropping into the chair across from me.

“You’ve been moping since you got back from Billionaire Island yesterday.

You haven’t mentioned Callan once, which is suspicious since you spent an entire weekend alone with him.

And Devonna says you’ve started stress-organizing the emergency kits by category and color, which you only do when you’re avoiding your feelings so hard they could file a restraining order. ”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” I insisted, straightening the already perfectly aligned stack of papers on my desk. “I had a professional weekend with a client, came back, and now I’m focused on work. Like a professional. Because that’s what I am. Professional.”

“You said ‘professional’ three times in that sentence,” Mari pointed out. “Which means you did something extremely unprofessional. Like, ‘caught giving a lap dance to the DJ at the reception’ unprofessional. Spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill,” I maintained; however, she kept staring at me in that knowing way that I finally threw my head back and sighed. “Fine. We missed the ferry, had to stay overnight in a B&B, shared a bed because there were no other options, and nothing happened.”

“You shared a bed?” Mari screeched, loud enough that I was sure the entire building heard her. “And nothing happened? What is wrong with you two? Were you both wearing full body casts? Did you develop a sudden allergy to orgasms? Is his penis purely decorative?”

“We held hands,” I admitted in a small voice. “And talked. About real things. Feelings and fears and... stuff.”

Mari stared at me in horror. “Oh my god. That’s worse than if you’d just slept with him. You’re emotionally involved. That’s like skipping straight past casual sex to U-Hauling your feelings into his emotional apartment.”

“I am not?—”

“Save it for someone who hasn’t known you since college,” she interrupted. “You’re into him. Like, really into him. Not just his abs or his billions or his perfect butt, but the actual person. The real Callan, not just the Burkhardt packaging.”

I buried my face in my hands. “It doesn’t matter. He’s still planning to marry someone else. That’s literally why he hired us.”

“But you said little is working out with the candidates,” Mari pointed out.

“He likes Angie.”

“The bitch robot with perfect hair and non-bouncy ass?”

“Yeah.” The word came out all mopey.

“I doubt he actually likes her.” Mari wrinkled her nose. “There is such a thing as too perfect. Maybe this is all a sign.”

“A sign of what? That I’m bad at my job?”

“That maybe the right candidate has been standing in front of him this whole time,” she suggested gently. “Wearing pencil skirts and organizing chaotic weddings and occasionally drooling on his abs in her sleep.”

“Don’t,” I pleaded. “Don’t give me hope where there isn’t any. He’s meeting with three new candidates this week. One of them will work out. One of them has to.”

“And if none of them do?”

“Then I’ll find more. We have only a few weeks before his wedding,” I pointed out. “That’s my job. That’s what he’s paying me for.”

“Is that really all this is to you? Just a job?”

I couldn’t answer that. Not honestly. Not without admitting that somewhere between the wedding expo and the island, between blue cocktails and handholding in the dark, Callan Burkhardt had become much more than just a client to me.

“I have work to do,” I said instead, turning back to my computer.

Mari sighed but took the hint, rising from her chair. “For what it’s worth,” she said, pausing at the door, “I think you’re making this more complicated than it needs to be. Just tell him how you feel.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It never is, but sometimes it’s worth it anyway.”

After she left, I sat staring at my blank computer screen, her words echoing in my head.

Just tell him how you feel. As if I could just walk up to Callan Burkhardt, billionaire client who had hired me specifically to find him a wife, and say, “Hey, I think I might be falling for you, despite all my professional boundaries and the fact that you’re planning to marry someone else as part of an elaborate bet with your frat boy friends. ”

Yeah. That would go over great. About as well as suggesting a clown officiate a formal wedding.

My phone buzzed, and I snatched it up embarrassingly fast, my heart doing a little flip when I saw Callan’s name on the screen.

Change of plans. Can you come to my penthouse tonight instead of tomorrow? 7pm. Something’s come up.

My fingers hovered over the keys as I debated my response. The professional thing would be to reschedule for normal business hours. To maintain boundaries. To not go to his penthouse at night like some booty call disguised as a business meeting.

I’ll be there.

Professional Anica was apparently on vacation. Possibly still on an island. Drinking something blue and making poor life choices.

Callan’s penthouse was exactly as I remembered it from our first meeting. The man himself answered the door looking decidedly less polished than usual, in jeans and a simple t-shirt, his hair slightly rumpled as if he’d been running his hands through it.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, stepping back to let me in. “Sorry for the last-minute change.”

“Not a problem,” I replied, clutching my portfolio of bride candidates in front of me.

“I brought the files on the three women we discussed. All of them are available this week for meetings if any catch your interest. I know Angie is the top contender, but like you said, I still have options for you if you’d like. ”

“About that,” Callan said, leading me toward the living area. “There’s been a change with her.”

“What kind of change?” I asked, taking a seat on the edge of the sofa.

“I broke things off.”

“What? With Angie?” I blinked, caught off guard. “But she was perfect. Intelligent, accomplished, beautiful?—”