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“She asked me to sign a prenup,” he interrupted, running a hand through his hair. “Her prenup. An eighty-seven page document her family’s lawyers prepared. Before we’d even had a third date.”

“Oh,” I said, genuinely surprised. “That’s... forward.”

“It had a clause about scheduled sex,” he continued, pacing now. “Twice a week, with provisions for ‘reasonable performance expectations’ and a section titled ‘Allowable Excuses for Non-Compliance.’”

I nearly choked. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were. There was also a detailed breakdown of acceptable vacation destinations categorized by season and a mandatory attendance policy for her family’s holiday gatherings, with financial penalties for missing her second cousin’s annual Labor Day barbecue.”

“That’s...”

“Insane? Terrifying? The relationship equivalent of being fitted for a straitjacket while still on the first date?”

“I was going to say ‘thorough,’” I offered. “But yes, those too.”

“I mean, I appreciate preparation, but this was like she was drafting a corporate merger where my body and time were the assets being acquired.” He shuddered visibly.

“When I pointed out that it seemed premature, she said, and I quote, ‘I like to maximize efficiency in all my endeavors, and this union presents optimal synergies for both our brands.’”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “She actually said ‘synergies’? In a romantic context?”

“While we were having dinner at Per Se. Right after suggesting we should ‘align our public personas for maximum market penetration.’ I nearly choked on my foie gras.”

“Okay, that is legitimately terrible,” I admitted. “But that’s what you said you wanted, isn’t it? A practical arrangement. A business transaction with romantic window dressing.”

“There’s practical, and then there’s treating marriage like a hostile takeover,” he countered. “I may be cynical, but even I draw the line at ‘performance metrics for bedroom activities.’”

“But you’ve turned down all of the candidates!” I exclaimed, frustration bubbling up. “Each one was too something. Too serious, too frivolous, too career-focused, too family-oriented. And now too... businesslike? It’s like you’re deliberately sabotaging this process.”

“Maybe I don’t know what I want,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair.

“Or maybe you don’t want to find it,” I shot back.

His gaze snapped to mine, something dangerous flickering in their blue depths. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” I said, standing up and taking a step toward him, “that you’ve rejected every qualified candidate for increasingly specific reasons. It means you’re running out of time to win your bet. It means I’m beginning to think you hired me under false pretenses.”

“False pretenses?” He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “Please, enlighten me.”

“Maybe you never intended to go through with this arrangement,” I suggested, taking another step forward. “Maybe the whole thing was just a game to you. A way to prove something to your friends, or to yourself.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, closing the distance between us even further.

“Don’t I? Are you trying to lose this bet? We have only a few weeks left!” I challenged, tilting my head back to look up at him.

“Maybe the bet doesn’t matter as much anymore,” he replied, his voice low.

“It’s thirty million dollars and literally why you hired me!” I was almost shouting now, my professional composure in tatters. “I’ve spent weeks finding qualified candidates, creating compatibility charts, orchestrating meetings?—”

“I don’t want any of them!”

“Then what do you want?”

“You,” he shouted, and suddenly his hands were cupping my face and his lips were on mine.

For a millisecond, I froze in shock. Then every rational thought fled my brain as I melted into the kiss, my hands flying up to grip his shoulders. The potential bride folder dropped to the floor at our feet, papers scattering everywhere. In that moment, I couldn’t have cared less.

This was nothing like the businesslike kisses I’d shared with other men.

This was a wildfire, consuming everything in its path.

His lips were firm yet gentle, commanding yet questioning, like he’d been thinking about this moment as long as I had.

When his tongue traced the seam of my mouth, I opened to him with a soft moan, and the kiss deepened into something that made my knees go weak and my insides turn molten.

My hands slid into his hair, reveling in its softness, while his moved from my face to my waist, pulling me flush against him until every hard plane of his body aligned with mine. The evidence of his desire pressed against my stomach, and a whimper escaped me at the contact.

His mouth left mine to explore my jaw, trailing fire along my skin. When he reached the sensitive spot just below my ear, he paused, his breath hot against me.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the moment you walked in here the first time,” he confessed, his voice a rough whisper that sent shivers through me. “Looking at me like I was a problem to be solved.”

“You are a problem,” I managed, though it came out breathy as his teeth grazed my earlobe. “A big, arrogant, impossible problem.”

“But you like solving problems,” he reminded me, his hand sliding down to cup my ass and pull me tighter against him. “It’s what you do.”

The pressure of his arousal against me sent a bolt of liquid heat straight to my core. I arched into him, seeking more of that delicious friction, and was rewarded with a deep groan that rumbled through his chest.

“Callan,” I gasped as his fingers deftly unfastened the first button of my blouse, then the second. “We shouldn’t?—“

“We absolutely should,” he disagreed, pressing a kiss to the newly exposed skin at the base of my throat. “In fact, I can think of at least seventeen reasons why we should, and they all involve making you forget words like ‘professional’ and ‘boundaries’ and ‘client.’”

The third button popped open, revealing the lacy edge of my bra—the good one, thank god, not the practical beige one I sometimes wore to client meetings.

“La Perla,” Callan observed, tracing the lace with a reverent finger. “I knew it.”

“You’re insufferable,” I informed him, even as I arched into his touch.

“And yet, here you are, suffering me quite enthusiastically,” he pointed out, lowering his head to press a kiss to the swell of my breast above the lace.

“In fact, I’d say you’re the opposite of suffering.

Unless that little sound you just made was a cry for help.

” His tongue traced the edge of the lace, and I tangled my fingers in his hair, holding him against me.

“Was it?” Callan nipped at my skin. “A cry for help?”

“Fuck, no.”

The rational part of my brain, the small portion not currently consumed with sensation, knew we should stop. That this was crossing every professional boundary I’d ever established. That there would be consequences.

But the rest of me, the part currently on fire from his touch, told my rational mind to shut the hell up.

“This is a terrible idea,” I whispered, even as I tugged him back up to capture his lips in another searing kiss.

“The best ideas usually are,” he murmured against my mouth, walking me backward until my legs hit the sofa. “Like inventing the internet. Or putting pineapple on pizza. Or hiring the world’s most uptight wedding planner and then making her lose her mind.”

“I’m not uptight,” I protested as we tumbled onto the cushions.

“Your emergency kits have emergency kits,” he pointed out, settling his weight above me.

“And they’ve solved plenty of problems,” I said, tugging his shirt up to finally, finally get my hands on those abs I’d been dreaming about since day one. “God, you’re perfect.”

“Speak for yourself, darling,” he groaned as my nails raked lightly down his stomach. “You’re killing me here.”

His mouth found mine again in a kiss that made my toes curl. His hand slid up my thigh, inching the hem of my skirt higher, and I mentally thanked Mari for her insistence that I wear my “good” underwear today instead of my sensible cotton briefs.

I was about to suggest we move this to the bedroom when a chiming sound filled the room, followed by a massive screen on the wall lighting up with an incoming video call. A familiar face filled the display. Vivian Burkhardt, looking elegant as ever.

“Callan, darling, I was just calling to—oh!” Her eyes widened comically as she took in the scene before her; her grandson hovering over a disheveled me on the couch, my blouse half unbuttoned, his shirt rucked up to expose those world-class abs, both of us looking thoroughly debauched.

We sprang apart like teenagers caught by parents, me frantically re-buttoning my blouse while Callan attempted to smooth his hair and appear composed.

“Gram!” he exclaimed, his voice an octave higher than normal. “What a surprise! I wasn’t expecting your call.”

“Clearly,” she replied in a flat tone. “Hello, Anica dear. Lovely to see you again, though perhaps more of you than either of us anticipated.”

“Mrs. Burkhardt,” I managed, mortification burning through me like acid. “This isn’t—we were just?—”

“Having a business meeting?” she suggested, her eyes twinkling. “A very hands-on consultation about wedding plans?”

“Something like that,” Callan muttered, shooting me an apologetic glance.

“Well, don’t let me interrupt,” Vivian said in a cheerful voice.

“I just wanted to remind you about Sunday dinner this weekend. Anica, you’re welcome to join us again.

Though perhaps you two should arrive separately to avoid giving my old heart too much excitement.

Or wear turtlenecks to hide any... evidence of your business discussions. ”

“I should go,” I blurted, gathering my scattered papers from the floor with shaking hands. “I have an early meeting tomorrow.”

“Bad timing, dears?” Vivian asked innocently.

“The worst,” Callan muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Gram,” he promised, clearly eager to end the conversation.

“Do that,” she agreed. “And Callan? Next time, perhaps consider turning off the auto-answer function on your video system when you’re... consulting with your wedding planner. Unless you’re interested in producing wedding night videos before the actual wedding.”

The screen went black, leaving us in silence.

“Well,” Callan said finally. “That was...”

“Humiliating?” I suggested. “Mortifying? The single most embarrassing moment of my professional career? A new entry in my personal ‘Top Ten Ways to Die of Shame’ list?”

“I was going to say ‘memorable,’ but those work too.”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Your grandmother saw me half-undressed on your couch. I can never face her again. I’ll have to move. Change my name. Perhaps enter the witness protection program. Start a new life as a sheep farmer in New Zealand.”

“If it helps, she seemed more amused than scandalized,” Callan offered, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. “And for what it’s worth, I’m not sorry it happened. Well, not the interruption part. The rest of it.”

I lowered my hands to look at him. “This complicates things.”

“Understatement of the century,” he agreed. “But maybe complicated isn’t bad.”

“It is when one of us is supposed to be planning the other’s wedding to someone else,” I pointed out.

Shit. The bet. The arrangement. The professional boundaries I’d just shattered into a million pieces by letting Callan Burkhardt explore my tonsils with his tongue while his hands wandered toward second base.

“Anica,” he began, his voice serious. “About the arrangement?—”

“I need to go,” I interrupted, unable to bear whatever he was about to say. Whatever logical explanation or plan he had for fitting this—whatever this was—into his larger scheme. “I need to think.”

“Anica, wait?—”

But I was already heading for the door, portfolio clutched to my chest, lips still tingling from his kiss, body still humming with unfulfilled desire. Damn haunted house flooded.

“I’ll call you,” I said over my shoulder, not looking back at him. “To reschedule. The candidate meetings. We’ll... figure this out.”

I fled the penthouse before he could respond, my heart pounding and my professional boundaries in tatters. What had I done? More importantly, what was I going to do now?

As the elevator descended, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, the memory of Callan’s lips on mine still burning.

I am so screwed.

And not even in the fun way.