Page 46

This time, when I came, he followed, his rhythm faltering as he groaned my name. He pulsed inside me, his entire body tensing as he found his release.

We stayed like that for several moments, breathless and tangled together, before he carefully lowered my legs and collapsed beside me. His arm draped possessively across my waist, pulling me against his chest.

“Holy shit,” I managed after a moment, my voice hoarse.

“Yeah,” he agreed, sounding equally wrecked.

“Yeah,” I nodded, no further elaboration needed.

“Still need to brush your teeth?” he murmured against my hair, a smile in his voice. He wove our fingers together as we had at the B Callan in sweatpants and nothing else, making breakfast in his kitchen while I sat at the island in his clothes, nursing coffee and watching him move.

It was the kind of moment that could make a person start thinking dangerous thoughts about futures that had no right to be considered.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, catching me staring.

“That you look unfairly good in sweatpants,” I shrugged. It felt wrong to ruin the moment with depressing thoughts.

Callan grinned. “I should bend you over more often. You seem to give out compliments when I do,” he said, setting a plate in front of me with a golden waffle, fresh berries, a dusting of powdered sugar, and a dollop of whipped cream.

“I just have to space them out. Can’t give them all out at once.”

We ate, joking back and forth. The waffles were absolutely delicious, just as promised. I was scraping the last bit of berry from my plate when Callan’s phone buzzed. He checked it, then groaned.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My friends,” he said, typing a quick response. “The Three Assholes. They’re coming over for brunch in an hour.”

“Oh,” I said, tugging at the hem of the shirt. “I should definitely go, then.”

“Or,” he suggested, setting down his phone, “you could stay. Meet them properly. Not over the phone like before.”

“Really?”

“I’d like you to, yeah.”

Part of me wanted to retreat, to maintain the professional distance that had kept me safe for so long. But another part, a growing part, wanted to see where this could go.

“Okay,” I agreed, surprising myself. “But I can’t meet your friends dressed like this. I need actual clothes.”

“I could have some brought over,” he offered immediately. “Whatever you need.”

“That won’t be necessary. I have an emergency outfit in my bag,” I assured him, sliding off the barstool.

“Of course you do. Why am I not surprised?”

“Professional preparedness. Never know when you might need to change after a champagne fountain disaster or a drunk groomsman.”

“Or after being thoroughly debauched by a billionaire,” he added with a smirk that should have been irritating but somehow wasn’t.

“That category is a recent addition to my emergency protocols. Still working out the necessary supplies. So far I’ve listed hair ties, tooth brush, and possibly knee braces.”

He laughed. “I apologize for necessitating knee braces. Though not for the activities that led to their requirement.”

“Apology not accepted but appreciated,” I replied, heading toward where I’d left my bag. “I’ll be back looking like a professional human being rather than someone who got railed into next Tuesday and stole her bedmate’s clothes.”

“Spoilsport,” he called after me. “I like you in my clothes. Makes it easier to take them off you again later.”

I flipped him off over my shoulder, his laugh following me down the hallway.

True to my word, I emerged in the simple shift dress and flats I kept in my emergency bag, hair neatly styled, looking like someone who hadn’t spent the morning engaging in activities that would make a porn star blush.

“You clean up nice,” Callan observed, having donned a t-shirt to complement his sweatpants. “Though I preferred the ‘thoroughly fucked’ look.”

“Save that thought for when your friends aren’t about to arrive,” I suggested, helping him clear the breakfast dishes.

“They’ll be here soon,” he said, checking the time. “Fair warning: they will absolutely give me shit about this. About us. Just ignore them. It’s how they show affection.”

“I think I can handle it. I deal with drunk groomsmen and emotional mothers-of-the-bride for a living. Your friends can’t be worse than that.”

“You say that now,” he muttered, but he was smiling.

The doorbell rang, and Callan went to answer it. I took the opportunity to freshen up, heading to the bathroom to check that I looked suitably composed.

On my way back, I heard male voices from the living area. I was about to join them when I caught the sound of my name. I paused, just out of sight of the open doorway.

“So, you and Anica, huh?” a voice I didn’t have a name for asked. “Gotta say, didn’t see that coming.”

“She’s hot,” another voice commented. “Smart, too. And she clearly doesn’t take any of your shit. No wonder you’re into her.”

“It’s more than that,” Callan replied, his voice softer than usual. “She’s... different.”

“Different how?” the first voice asked.

“She sees me,” Callan said simply. “Not the money, not the reputation. Just me.”

“Damn, Burkhardt,” a third voice chimed in, this one with a teasing edge. “You’re in love with her.”

My heart stuttered at the words, my breath catching in my throat. Was he? Because maybe I was falling for him too and we could find a way to–

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Callan scoffed.

My stomach dropped.

“Come on, man,” the second voice prodded. “We’ve known you forever. You’ve never talked about any woman like this. You’re head over heels in love.”

“For the last time, love doesn’t fucking exist,” Callan snapped, his voice suddenly hard. “What I have with Anica is great, but it’s not love. It can’t be love because, repeat after me boys, love doesn’t exist. Period. Now shut up about it.”

My chest constricted as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. I was an idiot. An absolute idiot. God, when had I started believing that anything besides us sleeping together could happen.

“Look,” Callan continued, his voice lowering, “she knows the score. This is just a good time for both of us. Something fun until I figure out the bet.”

I pressed a hand to my mouth, the sting of tears threatening behind my eyes. I’d known, of course. I’d known from the beginning that Callan didn’t believe in love. He’d made no secret of his cynicism, his belief that marriage was nothing more than a practical arrangement.

But hearing him dismiss what we’d shared so callously hurt more than I’d expected. More than it should have, given that I’d gone into this with my eyes open.

Vivian’s words echoed in my mind: “My Cal has a golden heart.” What utter bullshit.

His heart wasn’t gold; it was carbon. Compressed under pressure, hardened into something beautiful but impenetrable.

And I, like every fool who’d ever been dazzled by a diamond, had mistaken its brilliance for warmth.

The worst part? Despite all my professional boundaries, all my promises to myself after Austin, I’d started to fall for him. Started to believe there might be something real beneath the billionaire playboy facade, something that could grow beyond the physical into something meaningful.

What a fucking idiot I was. Anica Marcel, wedding planner extraordinaire, who’d built a career helping other people find their happily-ever-afters while systematically avoiding her own, had let herself believe in the possibility of love with a man who didn’t even think it existed.

I backed away from the doorway, moving silently toward the bedroom where I’d left my bag. I needed to get out of here before they realized I’d overheard. Before I had to face Callan and pretend his words hadn’t shattered something inside me.

Gathering my things quickly, I shoved my dress into my bag alongside my phone and wallet. I was almost to the elevator when I heard his voice behind me.

“Anica? Where ya going?” Callan asked. “I was about to introduce you to the guys.”

I turned slowly, forcing my expression into something I prayed resembled composure. “I just remembered I have a client emergency. I need to go.”

He frowned, moving closer. “What emergency? You didn’t get any calls.”

“It was a text,” I said shortly. “Look, I really need to go.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his gaze searching my face. “Did something happen?”

I let out a hollow laugh. “You could say that.”

“You heard us talking.”

“Enough,” I confirmed.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Anica, listen?—”

“To what? To more explanations about how this is just ‘a good time’? About how love doesn’t exist? I’ve heard enough, Callan.”

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—” He exhaled sharply. “It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s really not,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “You’ve been honest from the beginning about not believing in love. I knew that. I just didn’t realize how deeply you meant it.”

“What do you want from me, Anica? To pretend I believe in something I don’t? To lie to you?”

And there it was. The confirmation I didn’t want but needed to hear.

“You truly believe love doesn’t exist. That what people feel for each other is nothing more than convenient fiction or biological impulse?”

He hesitated, and in that hesitation, I had my answer.

“People build entire lives waiting for something that doesn’t exist,” he said finally, his voice hard. “I refuse to be one of them.”

I nodded, a cold, solid wall erupting from where I’d foolishly let him break it down, brick by brick. “Then there’s nothing more to say.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to leave because I won’t parrot some Hallmark card sentiment about love conquering all?”

“I’m leaving because I’ve spent my life, and more importantly, my career surrounded by love,” I said, my voice breaking.

“I’ve watched people sacrifice everything for it.

I’ve seen it transform lives. And I deserve someone who at least acknowledges its existence, even if they haven’t experienced it themselves. ”

“Anica—”

“I’m surrounded by it at work, Ca—Mr. Burkhardt,” I continued, refusing to let him interrupt. “I see it daily. And I can’t be with someone who looks me in the eye and tells me love is fiction. I won’t be someone’s ‘good time’ while they shop for a bride elsewhere. I deserve better than that.”

I turned away before he could respond, before the tears threatening to fall could betray me further. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and I stepped inside, keeping my back straight, my chin high.

“Don’t let this be over,” he called after me, a note of desperation in his voice that I’d never heard before. “Please, Anica.”

“I’m not letting anything happen.” I turned, meeting his gaze one last time. “But it is over. Some things can’t be fixed with money or power or orgasms, Callan. This is one of them.”

The doors closed before he could respond, and only then, alone in the descending elevator, did I allow the first tears to fall. They didn’t stop.