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A Woman With Little Hands…

CALLAN

I stood, staring at my phone like it might spontaneously transform into a rabid honey badger determined to devour my dignity all because I needed to call a woman who’d seen me with morning wood and knew I was afraid of jellyfish.

Billionaire problems, ladies and gentlemen. Not listed in Forbes, but devastating nonetheless.

It had been exactly twenty-three hours and seventeen minutes since Anica had fled my penthouse, leaving behind the lingering scent of her perfume, the ghost of her lips on mine, and my dignity in tatters.

Twenty-three hours and seventeen minutes of replaying our kiss in my mind, each time adding new and increasingly unlikely scenarios where my grandmother didn’t interrupt us via wall-sized video screen.

I needed to call her. It was the mature, responsible thing to do. We had a business arrangement that had been complicated by the sudden introduction of tongues and wandering hands, and as the gentleman in this scenario, the onus was on me to clear the air.

I picked up my phone, then immediately set it down again. What exactly was I supposed to say?

Hey, remember when we almost had sex on my couch before my grandmother caught us? Good times! Anyway, about those bride candidates...

Or perhaps…

So, that kiss. On a scale from ‘career-ending mistake’ to ‘let’s do it again immediately and maybe add some light bondage,’ where would you rank it?

The truth was, I had no idea where we stood.

She’d run out of my penthouse like it was on fire, which wasn’t exactly an encouraging sign.

But before that? Before that, she’d been just as eager as I was, her body responding to mine in ways that suggested our mutual attraction wasn’t just in my imagination.

I wanted more. A lot more. The kind of more that had nothing to do with our professional relationship and everything to do with the way my dick had gotten hard before she’d moaned against my mouth.

I picked up the phone again, this time forcing myself to dial before I could chicken out. My finger hovered over her name in my contacts.

“Just call her, Burkhardt. You’ve negotiated multi-million dollar deals. You’ve testified before Congress. You’ve explained cryptocurrency to your grandmother. You can handle one conversation with a woman.”

I hit dial before I could talk myself out of it again.

She answered on the fourth ring, just as I was composing a casual voicemail in my head.

“Hello, Mr. Burkhardt,” she said, her voice so professionally neutral it could have moderated a debate between the Dalai Lama and Satan without taking sides.

“Mr. Burkhardt? Really? After what we... I mean, after yesterday?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity from my voice.

“I’m at the office,” she replied, her tone softening. “Mari and Devonna are within earshot, and they’re already suspicious enough after the island.”

“Ah.” That made sense. “Can you talk?”

“About business matters, yes.”

Business matters. Right. Because that’s all this was. Business. Except for the part where I couldn’t stop thinking about the little gasp she’d made when I’d kissed that spot just below her ear, a sound that had taken up permanent residence in my spank bank’s VIP section.

“I need a date for the Children’s Hospital Gala tomorrow night,” I blurted, abandoning my carefully planned opening.

There was a pause. “I’m sure Angie would be available.”

“I told you, I broke things off.” I ran a hand through my hair, pacing across my office like a caged tiger with erectile dysfunction. “I’m not calling her.”

“I’m sure I could fix that if you?—”

“I’m not asking someone else,” I interrupted. “I’m asking you.”

Another pause, longer this time. “Is this professional or personal?”

“Does it have to be one or the other?” I countered, then immediately regretted it. “I mean... I’d like you to come. As my date. But I understand if you’d rather keep things strictly professional.”

I held my breath, waiting for her answer.

“Okay,” she said finally.

“Okay?” I repeated, not quite believing it.

“Yes. I’ll go with you to the gala.”

“Great!” I winced at my over-enthusiastic tone. “I mean, good. I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Seven works. Text me the details about the dress code.”

“Will do. And Anica?”

“Yes?”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

There was the briefest hesitation before she replied, “Me too,” and hung up.

I stared at my phone, an idiotic grin spreading across my face. She’d said yes. She was coming to the gala. With me. As my date.

“You’ve changed that tie four times now,” Erika observed from the doorway of my bedroom. “Should I be concerned you’re having some kind of fashion-related breakdown? Or is this early-onset dementia? If so, can I have your yacht when you lose all cognitive function?”

“The blue one looked too corporate. The burgundy one was too much. The gray one was boring. And this one...” I frowned at my reflection, tugging at the green silk tie I’d just knotted. “This one makes me look like I’m trying too hard.”

“Heaven forbid you look like you’re putting effort into your appearance,” my assistant remarked. “The world might stop spinning. Small children would weep. The stock market would crash.”

I shot her a look. “So good to have you back, Erika.”

“Would it be more helpful if I pointed out that you’ve never spent this long getting ready for any event, including your TED talk and that time you met the Queen of England?

You were less nervous when you testified before Congress about privacy violations.

You spent less time preparing for your Harvard commencement speech than you have choosing a tie for this date. ”

“I’m beginning to regret giving you a key to my penthouse,” I muttered, unknotting the green tie and reaching for the blue one again.

“No, you’re not. Without me, you’d probably be wearing mismatched socks and that horrible tie your college roommate got you as a joke.

” Erika stepped into the room, gently pushing my hands aside to take over the tie-knotting process.

“The blue one is perfect. It brings out your eyes and complements your suit without being flashy. Trust me.”

I sighed, relenting. “Since when do I care about being flashy? Flash is practically my middle name. Callan ‘Flash’ Burkhardt.”

“No, it’s not. And you’re nervous because this isn’t just any date. This is the woman you’ve been talking about non-stop for weeks.”

“I don’t talk about her non-stop. You haven’t even been here. What do you know?”

“Yesterday you spent thirty minutes telling me about what her hair smells like.’”

“I was making fun of her!”

“You were practically writing sonnets about it.” Erika finished with my tie and stepped back to assess her work. “Perfect. Now, are you going to call your grandmother for the pep talk I know you want, or should I dial her for you?”

“How did you?—”

“Please. You call her before every major decision or event. It’s sweet, actually. One of the few genuinely endearing things about you, along with your secret donations to animal shelters and the fact that you cry during Pixar movies.”

“Just for that, I’m cutting your Christmas bonus,” I grumbled, but I was already reaching for my phone.

Erika smirked. “No, you’re not. You already approved it.

In writing. I have copies. In three different secure locations.

Plus I’ve told my mother about it, and she’s already planned her cruise.

You don’t want to disappoint my mother, Mr. Burkhardt.

She’s still recovering from her non-stroke stroke. ”

“Get out before I make Gram rate your outfit.”

As soon as she left, I dialed Gram’s number. She answered on the second ring.

“If you’re calling to cancel Sunday dinner again, I’m writing you out of my will and leaving everything to that cat who keeps breaking into my garden to shit in my petunias.”

“Hello to you too, Gram. And no, I’m not canceling. I’m calling about... something else.”

“The gala with Anica,” she said immediately.

“How did you—never mind. Yes. The gala. With Anica.”

“You’re nervous,” she observed. “That’s new.”

“I’m not nervous,” I lied. “I’m just–“

“Callan Anthony Burkhardt, I’ve known you since you were an overcooked potato in a hospital blanket. Don’t try to fool me. You get the same squeaky voice you had when you asked Lia Jennins to the eighth-grade dance and she said yes, then you threw up in the ficus plant.”

I sighed, sinking onto the edge of my bed. “Fine. I’m nervous. I don’t get nervous. Not about women. Not about anything. But she’s different, Gram. She sees through all the noise and she doesn’t care about the money at all. She treats me like I’m just a guy, not a bank account with legs.”

“That’s because you are just a guy,” Gram said simply. “A very lucky, very privileged guy with more money than sense sometimes, but still just a man. And from what I’ve seen—which, may I remind you, was quite a bit more than I anticipated during our last video call—she likes that man.”

“She ran out of my penthouse.”

“After I caught you two half-undressed on the couch like horny ruffians. Can you blame her? The poor girl was mortified. I saw more of her décolletage than her own doctor probably has.”

“She hasn’t mentioned it since. The kiss, I mean.”

“Have you two talked?”

“Well... no.”

“Men,” Gram sighed. “You need to talk to her, Cal. Tell her how you feel.”

“I don’t know how I feel,” I admitted. “I just know I want to see her again. I want to spend time with her. I want to kiss her again. A lot. Possibly for hours. Maybe days. In multiple positions and locations.”

“Thank you, grandson. That was exactly what I wanted to talk about. Please bury me with white orchids.”

“I just mean it’s complicated. Really complicated.”

“What’s complicated about it?” Gram asked. “You love her and she–”

“Love doesn’t exist, Gram. I’ve told you that a thousand times.”

“Yes, and I’ve come to terms that my grandson is a genius in all but that category. When it comes to love, you’re a fucking idiot.”