Page 5

Possible Spontaneous Underwear Combustion

ANICA

God, maybe Mari was right. I needed to get laid. The vibrator wasn’t cutting it anymore.

I balanced my coffee, laptop bag, and a stack of vendor catalogs as I fumbled with the office door, feeling like I was moving through quicksand after my night of definitely-not-obsessing over Manhattan’s Most Eligible Jerkface.

Usually, I was the first one in, followed by Devonna at 8:15 and Mari whenever her hangover permitted, typically somewhere between 9:00 and the apocalypse.

Mari once showed up so late she missed an entire consultation, then claimed she was “operating on Australian time” despite having never been to Australia.

So I wasn’t prepared to find the lights already on, coffee brewing, and Devonna, my reliable, serious, perpetually anxious assistant, giggling. Not just regular giggling. The kind of high-pitched, breathless giggle usually reserved for puppies in bow ties or Ryan Gosling doing literally anything.

That giggle was directed at Callan Burkhardt, who lounged against my reception desk like he was posing for the cover of Billionaire Monthly: Trespassing Edition.

He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car, with a pale blue tie that matched his eyes to the point where I suspected he’d had it custom-dyed from a swatch of his own iris.

“Good morning, Ms. Marcel,” he said, flashing that magazine-cover smile that probably made most women drop their panties. I felt my own underwear consider the possibility before I mentally slapped it back into place. “Your assistant has excellent taste in almond croissants.”

Devonna, who normally maintained the demeanor of a particularly anxious tax accountant during audit season, was practically glowing.

She clutched a pastry in one hand and what appeared to be a monogrammed coffee cup in the other.

Her usually impeccable bun had somehow come slightly undone, and she’d unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.

For Devonna, this was the equivalent of showing up in a bikini.

“Mr. Burkhardt brought breakfast,” she explained unnecessarily, gesturing to an elaborate spread of pastries, fruit, and what looked suspiciously like a sterling silver coffee service.

“Wasn’t that thoughtful? And he asked all about my system organizing the emergency vendor contacts.

He said it was”—she actually fluttered her eyelashes—“revolutionary.”

“Incredibly thoughtful,” I replied, my tone drier than the Sahara during a drought. “Almost as thoughtful as calling ahead for an appointment or, I don’t know, respecting normal business boundaries.”

“I did try,” he said with mock contrition. “Your voicemail is full. Something about a woman named Amelia and her mother’s demand for alpaca ring bearers in sombreros?”

“Berets, actually,’” I corrected automatically, then immediately regretted giving him any information at all. “How did you get in here? Did you bribe the security guard? Hack our alarm system?”

“Your building manager is a fan of my apps. Particularly DateMe, which apparently helped him meet his fiancée.” Callan looked insufferably pleased with himself.

“He was happy to let me in early to surprise a valued tenant. He also mentioned you’re the only person in the building who’s never been late on rent, and you once helped his mother plan her vow renewal for free. ”

“How long have you been here interrogating people about me?” I demanded, dropping my bags at my desk. “And exactly what part of ‘no’ last night gave you the impression that stalking me at my workplace was an appropriate follow-up strategy?”

“The part where you looked at me like you were mentally calculating whether the benefits of saying yes outweighed the headache.” He offered me a coffee cup with my name inscribed in what appeared to be actual gold leaf. “I had these made specially. Seemed a shame to settle for paper cups.”

I ignored the coffee despite the traitorous part of my brain that was practically foaming at the mouth for caffeine and the even more traitorous part that was stupidly flattered he’d gone to such lengths.

“This is inappropriate. We don’t have a meeting scheduled, and I believe I made my position clear last night. ”

“Crystal clear,” he agreed, taking a sip from his own cup. “Which is why I’m here with a revised proposition.”

“I don’t?—”

“One million dollars,” he interrupted. “As your planning fee. Separate from the wedding budget.”

I almost dropped the vendor catalogs. One million dollars.

That was enough to pay off our business loans, put a deposit down on the downtown storefront location we’d been eyeing for years, hire at least two more assistants, and still have enough left over to replace the ancient copier that had been making sounds like a dying whale since 2020.

We’d named it Moby Dick, partly for the whale noises and partly because it was the bane of my existence.

But I wasn’t about to let him see me react. “Mr. Burkhardt?—”

“Plus exclusive rights to plan my grandmother’s annual charity gala, which, I should mention, is covered extensively by every major society publication and has launched the careers of multiple event planners.”

Now he was just being cruel. The Burkhardt Foundation Gala was the holy grail of social events; impossible to get unless you were already established with the upper echelon of Manhattan society.

It was the event planning equivalent of getting a Broadway lead role without ever having appeared in a high school musical.

“And,” he continued, placing his coffee cup down on my desk, “I’m prepared to make a significant investment in your business. Silent partner. No interference in your operations.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you so determined to hire me specifically? There are dozens of wedding planners in Manhattan who would jump at this opportunity without requiring bribery, breaking and entering, or personalized coffee cups.” Dozens of planners who wouldn’t spend an embarrassing amount of time staring at the way his pants fit his absurdly well-formed backside. Not that I’d been looking. Much.

He considered me for a moment, his head tilted slightly. “Because you said no.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s the best reason.” He stepped closer, and I caught a whiff of whatever absurdly expensive cologne he wore.

Something that probably contained actual gold flakes and the tears of finance bros he’d crushed on his way to the top.

It smelled like money and masculinity and made my knees momentarily consider a career change to “jelly.” “Everyone says yes to me, Ms. Marcel. Always. It’s refreshing to meet someone who values principles over profit. ”

“So you’re trying to get me to abandon those principles... for profit.”

He chuckled. “Interesting.” Callan shrugged. “I’m asking you to consider that your principles and my proposal aren’t mutually exclusive.” He gestured around our modest office. “You’ve built something impressive here. But with the right resources, you could build an empire.”

Before I could respond, Mari burst through the door in a cloud of perfume and lateness, already talking before she fully entered the room.

“Ani, you will not believe what happened with that client from the Upper East Side. She wants swans. Not just regular swans. Black swans. In Manhattan. In July. I told her unless she’s planning to airbrush the regular swans or host her wedding inside a meat locker, she’s going to have a bunch of dead birds floating in the—holy mother of all things fuckable. ”

She stopped abruptly, finally registering Callan’s presence. Her mouth actually dropped open, and I watched with horrified fascination as she unconsciously licked her lips like a cartoon wolf spotting a particularly juicy steak.

“You’re him,” she breathed, her voice dropping an octave into what I recognized as her “I’m about to make terrible decisions” range. “You’re Callan Burkhardt.”

“Indeed I am,” Callan replied, extending his hand. “And you must be Mari Landry, the creative genius behind the business.”

Mari took his hand but instead of shaking it, she just held it, staring at him with the same expression I’d seen her use when we passed a Gucci sample sale. “Creative genius, future billionaire’s wife, whatever you want to call me,” she purred.

“I do have an opening for that position.” Callan kissed her knuckles and for a moment, I was concerned my best friend was going to collapse.

I cleared my throat a little too loudly. “Mr. Burkhardt was just leaving.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Mari countered, finally releasing his hand but maintaining eye contact with the subtlety of a neon sign. “You wouldn’t leave when I just arrived, would you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Callan seemed far too entertained by what was happening, leaning back against my desk and sipping his coffee with the world’s smuggest look on his stupid handsome face.

To my horror, my assistant took Mari’s side. “I think Mr. Burkhardt was just about to tell us more about his investment offer. In detail. With numbers.”

“Devonna’s right, but first…” Mari grabbed my arm with alarming strength. “Excuse us one tiny moment.”

Before I could protest, she had dragged me into our supply closet; a generous term for what was essentially a glorified cabinet with enough room for two adults if they didn’t mind violating personal space laws.

“Are you clinically insane?” she hissed once the door was closed.

“That’s Callan Burkhardt. The Callan Burkhardt.

The guy who made his first billion before thirty.

The guy whose dating app revolutionized how millennials hook up and whose financial app is how I manage to pay rent despite my questionable spending habits.

The guy who has his own goddamn thirst account on Instagram with three million followers who just post zoomed-in photos of his–“

“I’m aware of who he is.”