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“Gee, thanks so much for that.” I ran my hand through my hair, instantly regretting the action because I’d used hair gel.

She sighed. “With the examples you were given, I’m not surprised that’s your opinion.”

“Well, yeah, obviously with Mom and Dad–”

“But,” she said, clearly annoyed I’d spoken while she was on some sort of soapbox. “Your opinion on that matter, my dear, is absolute horse shit.”

Normally, I’d humor her, but her comment irked me more than it should’ve.

“Gram, I appreciate the crappy pep talk, but you’re wrong and I need to leave or I’ll be late picking Anica up.”

“You show up on time for her, Cal. That’s got to stand for something.”

“I love you, Gram.”

After hanging up with her, I finished getting ready. Erika’s final approval ensured I looked presentable by the time I headed to my car.

By the time I pulled up in front of Anica’s building, my palms were sweating. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cared this much about impressing someone. Maybe never.

I texted to let her know I was there, then waited outside my car, using the windows to check my reflection in the rearview mirror one last time. Hair? Perfect. Tie? Straight. Expression? Only mildly terrified, with a hint of “might vomit if rejected” around the edges.

I was just considering whether I should go up to her apartment or wait by the car when the building’s front door opened, and there she was.

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

The witty compliment I’d prepared died on my lips as I took in the vision gliding towards me.

Anica wore a midnight blue gown that shimmered with every movement, clinging to her curves before flowing gracefully to the ground.

The neckline dipped just low enough to be enticing without being obvious, and her hair was swept up in an elegant style that exposed the slender column of her neck.

She looked like she’d stepped out of a dream I didn’t even know I was having.

I scrambled away from the car, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste to reach her.

“Hi,” I said brilliantly, my extensive vocabulary apparently reduced to monosyllables by the sight of her.

“Hi yourself,” she replied, a small smile playing at her lips. God, I’d kissed those perfect lips. I wanted to do it again. Shit, they were moving. “You clean up nicely.”

“You... I mean... that dress is...” I gestured helplessly, words failing me entirely. My brain, which had negotiated billion-dollar deals and revolutionized tech industries, was suddenly operating with the processing power of a calculator from 1982.

“Use your words, Burkhardt,” she teased, but a faint blush colored her cheeks. “For a man who talks as much as you do, you’re surprisingly quiet right now.”

“You look incredible,” I finally managed. “Absolutely stunning. I’m seriously reconsidering my atheism because you’re making a compelling case for the existence of divine beings. Either that, or I’ve had a stroke and this is a very specific hallucination.”

Her blush deepened. “Thank you. You look pretty good yourself.”

“Pretty good? I’m wounded. I spent at least forty-five minutes on my hair alone. A small forest died for the products required to achieve this level of casual perfection.”

“In that case, you look devastatingly handsome,” she amended. “Does that soothe your fragile ego?”

“Immensely,” I grinned, opening the passenger door for her. “Your chariot awaits, my lady.”

“A Bugatti is hardly a chariot. More like a very expensive missile with leather seats,” she observed, sliding gracefully into the seat.

“A missile with excellent handling and zero to sixty in 2.4 seconds,” I corrected, closing her door before rounding the car to the driver’s side.

“I thought about bringing the helicopter, but city ordinances frown on landing in residential areas. Something about noise complaints and ‘severe safety hazards.’ Bureaucracy at its finest.”

She laughed, the sound making my heart do acrobatics in my chest. “I appreciate your restraint.”

The drive to the gala was filled with easy conversation, neither of us mentioning the couch incident, though I caught her glancing at my lips more than once.

Each time she did, heat pooled in my stomach, memories of our kiss flashing through my mind.

It forced me to have to think about other things, like the petunia-pooping cat Gram had mentioned and Norbert the butler in a speedo.

When those failed, I shifted my mind to business deals I had coming up. That did the job.

The event planners had transformed the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the evening, its grand entrance flanked by red carpets and photographers. As we pulled up, Anica tensed beside me.

“There are a lot of cameras,” she observed, her voice carefully neutral.

“Occupational hazard of these events,” I replied, handing my keys to the valet. “Just smile and keep walking. They’re vultures, but harmless ones. And if anyone asks, you don’t have to answer. That’s what publicists are for.”

“I don’t have a publicist,” she pointed out.

“Tonight, you can borrow mine.” I came around to her side of the car, offering my hand. “Ready?”

She took a deep breath, then placed her hand in mine. “Nope, let’s go.”

The moment we stepped onto the red carpet, the flashes began.

Photographers called out my name, and occasionally Anica’s—apparently someone had done their homework—as we made our way toward the entrance.

I kept my hand on the small of her back, a gesture that was partly protective and partly selfish.

I liked touching her, liked the subtle reminder that she was here with me.

“Callan! Who’s your date?” a reporter called out.

“Anica Marcel,” I replied smoothly. “The most talented wedding planner in Manhattan.”

“Are those wedding bells we hear?” another shouted.

“The only bells you’re hearing are the ones I installed in your head the last time you printed something about my love life,” I shot back with a smile that took the sting out of the words. Mostly.

Anica relaxed against my hand as we continued past the press line. By the time we reached the main entrance, she was almost smiling.

“That wasn’t so bad,” she admitted.

“The night is young,” I warned her. “The real sharks are inside, disguised as socialites and philanthropists.”

“Way to make me feel better,” she deadpanned.

“It’s a gift,” I agreed. “Along with my devastatingly handsome looks and Greek god abs.”

She groaned. “What. An. Ego.”

“It’s not the only big thing about me,” I whispered in her ear as I guided her into the gala. She elbowed me. I couldn’t stop grinning.

The Great Hall had been transformed into a glittering wonderland of lights and flowers, with elegantly dressed attendees already mingling over champagne.

A string quartet played softly in one corner, and waiters circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres that probably cost more per bite than most people’s weekly grocery budget.

I watched Anica take it all in, her eyes wide. “This is magnificent,” she said. “The lighting design alone is incredible.”

“Only you would notice the lighting design before the ice sculpture of a cherub riding a dolphin,” I teased, nodding toward the elaborate centerpiece.

“Professional hazard,” she shrugged. “I’m mentally taking notes for future events.”

“Well, feel free to critique anything you like. I’m on the planning committee, so I can pass along feedback.”

She looked at me in surprise. “You’re on the planning committee? For a children’s hospital fundraiser?”

“Did you forget that I also had the Pediatric Cancer event a couple weeks ago? I helped with that one too. Is that so hard to believe?” I asked, feigning offense.

“I do occasionally participate in activities that don’t involve making money or looking pretty.

Sometimes I feed the ducks. Sometimes I pet dogs in the park. ”

“It’s just... unexpected,” she admitted.

“I’m full of surprises,” I assured her, snagging two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handing one to her. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” she agreed, touching her glass to mine.

As we mingled, I introduced Anica to various acquaintances and business associates, all of whom seemed fascinated by her.

Or, more accurately, fascinated by the fact that I’d brought her as my date.

I could practically see the gossip spreading through the room, carried on currents of whispered conversations and meaningful glances.

Strangely, I didn’t mind. In fact, part of me, a larger part than I cared to admit, wanted these rumors to be true. Wanted people to think of Anica as mine. Wanted her to be mine.

“What are you thinking about? You’ve got a strange look on your face.” Anica asked, breaking into my thoughts.

“Just contemplating the strange and mysterious workings of the universe. And wondering if the shrimp puffs are worth the inevitable garlic breath.”

“Very deep thoughts,” she nodded solemnly. “Truly the mark of a philosophical mind.”

“I contain multitudes,” I agreed. “Speaking of which, would you like to see the pediatric cardiology wing plans? They’re on display in the east gallery.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You know where the display is?”

“I helped design it. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Taking her hand, I led her through the crowd to a quieter area where architectural renderings and medical equipment diagrams lined the walls. I stopped in front of a large display showing the proposed new wing of the children’s hospital.

“This is the project the gala is funding. A state-of-the-art pediatric cardiology center with the latest diagnostic and treatment technology.”

Anica studied the renderings. “This is impressive. The layout is incredibly patient-centered.”

“That was the priority. Too many hospitals are designed for the convenience of the staff rather than the comfort of the patients. We worked with child psychologists to create spaces that would feel less intimidating for kids undergoing treatment.”

“We?” she questioned, looking at me with new curiosity.