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“Then why aren’t you jumping on whatever offer he’s making?

Did he proposition you? Is that why he’s here?

Because if so, while I absolutely support your right to say no, I also support your right to consider climbing him like a tree and seeing if billionaires do it better.

For science. For womankind. For me, vicariously. And multiple times. In public.”

“Mari!” My face heated up to approximately the temperature of the sun. “He’s not—that’s not—he wants to hire us.”

“Even better! We need clients!”

“To plan a wedding.”

“That’s literally our job description.”

“For him.”

“So?”

“Without a bride.”

She blinked. “Come again?”

“He literally told you the position was open.”

“I was too busy imagining what it’d be like for him to pin me to your desk and–”

“Ew. Stop.” I smacked her in the arm.

“Ow.” Mari smacked me back.

“He doesn’t have a bride.” I quickly explained Callan’s proposition—the bet, the nonexistent bride, the obscene amount of money now on the table. With each detail, Mari’s expression shifted from confusion to disbelief to calculating interest.

“So let me get this straight,” she said when I finished. “He’s offering us a million-dollar planning fee, exclusive rights to the Burkhardt Gala, and a business investment, just to plan a wedding for him and some woman he hasn’t met yet?”

“Yes.”

“And you said no.”

“Of course I said no! It’s morally reprehensible and completely against everything we stand for.”

“What we stand for is planning spectacular weddings and making money doing it. And apparently turning down the hottest man in Manhattan when he’s literally throwing cash at us.

Did you see his butt in those pants? That’s not a butt, Ani.

That’s an achievement. That’s a butt that deserves its own Forbes profile. ”

“Can you focus, please? This isn’t about his... anatomy.”

“Everything is about his anatomy. Have you seen it? Because I have, extensively, on the internet. There’s a photo of him coming out of the ocean in St. Barts that should be classified as a weapon of mass seduction.”

“Would you stop objectifying our potential client?”

“So he is a potential client now?” Mari pounced on my slip with the ferocity of a sample sale shopper spotting the last discounted Prada bag. “I knew you were considering it!”

“I’m not—” I stopped, sighing. “It’s morally reprehensible and completely against everything we stand for.”

“Morals don’t pay for that downtown storefront you’ve been eyeing.

They don’t pay Devonna’s salary or the rent increase our landlord just hit us with.

And they definitely don’t pay for the new spring collection at Saks that I’ve already charged to my card.

” She grabbed my shoulders. “Do you know what does pay for those things? Billionaires with commitment issues and excellent bone structure.”

I closed my eyes, my resolve weakening despite myself. The worst part was, she wasn’t wrong. We were doing okay, but “okay” didn’t build empires. It didn’t secure our future or allow us to expand. It just kept us treading water in an industry where the big fish regularly swallowed the small ones.

“Look,” Mari said, her voice softening. “I get it. It’s weird. But maybe we could see it as... I don’t know, a challenge? The ultimate wedding planning test? If we can pull this off, we can handle anything.”

“It feels like selling out,” I admitted.

“It’s not selling out if it funds your dreams.” She squeezed my arm. “Just think about it, okay? That’s all I’m asking. Think about it while staring directly at his face, which was clearly sculpted by Michelangelo during a particularly inspired period.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

When we emerged from the closet, Callan was examining our vision board; a massive collage of wedding inspiration, business goals, and the occasional motivational quote that Mari insisted kept our “entrepreneurial chakras aligned,” whatever that meant.

“Fascinating,” he said, pointing to a photo of the downtown storefront we’d been coveting. “This space has been vacant for nearly a year. The owner is holding out for a specific type of tenant. Someone with... prestige.”

Of course he knew about the storefront. He probably had files on our favorite coffee orders and preferred brands of toilet paper too.

Possibly our menstrual cycles and exact measurements.

I made a mental note to sweep the office for bugs later, though I wouldn’t put it past him to have developed microscopic drones disguised as dust particles.

“Mr. Burkhardt,” I began, steeling myself. “Your offer is extremely generous.”

“But?” he prompted, turning to face me with those unfairly blue eyes. Eyes that should come with their own warning label: CAUTION: Prolonged exposure may cause common sense failure and spontaneous underwear combustion.

“But I need to establish some terms.”

Mari made a small, triumphant noise behind me that sounded disturbingly like “cha-ching.”

“I’m listening,” Callan said, looking intrigued rather than victorious, which somehow annoyed me more.

“First, this will be a strictly professional relationship. No inappropriate comments, no innuendos, no... whatever that was in your office last night.”

“My devastating charm?” he suggested with a smirk that made something low in my abdomen do a completely unauthorized backflip.

“Your harassment-adjacent behavior,” I corrected. “Second, I won’t lie to vendors or clients about the nature of this arrangement, but I will be discreet. No public statements about planning a wedding without a bride.”

“Agreed.”

“Third, I maintain complete creative control. If you hire me for my expertise, you need to trust it.”

“Within reason,” he countered.

“Within the bounds of good taste and what’s logistically possible,” I clarified.

“Fair enough.”

“Fourth, this is a limited engagement. Once the wedding is planned and executed—assuming you find someone willing to marry you despite your personality—our business relationship concludes. No ongoing obligations.”

“Except for my grandmother’s gala,” he reminded me. “And the investment would be ongoing.”

“We can negotiate those separately. I’m talking about the wedding planning contract.”

“Agreed,” he said again. I was annoyed for some reason at how easily he was accepting my terms. Either he was the most reasonable billionaire in history, or he was already plotting ways around them.

I was betting on the latter.

“Do we have a deal, Ms. Marcel?” He extended his hand, and I had the distinct impression I was making a deal with the devil. A very attractive, coffee-bringing devil in a suit that was clearly made to fit him like a second, sexy skin.

I glanced at Mari, who was nodding so vigorously she resembled one of those dashboard bobbleheads.

Then at Devonna, who was trying to appear professional while clearly calculating how a million-dollar contract would affect her upcoming vacation plans and also blatantly staring at Callan’s ass with an expression that suggested she was mentally removing his trousers. Possibly with her teeth.

“Against every ounce of better judgment I possess... yes.” I shook his hand, ignoring the voice in my head screaming that this was a terrible idea, possibly the worst since that time in college when Mari convinced me that cutting my own bangs at 3 AM after four vodka sodas was “empowering.” I’d ended up looking like a regretful toddler with safety scissors and a grudge against her own forehead.

“Excellent.” Callan’s smile was so triumphant I immediately wanted to rescind my agreement out of spite.

And also because his smile did alarming things to my internal organs, things that felt distinctly unprofessional and dangerously close to attraction.

Which was ridiculous. I wasn’t attracted to arrogant billionaires with god complexes, no matter how well they filled out a suit or how symmetrical their facial features might be.

“When do we start?” he asked, his thumb brushing over my knuckles before releasing my hand. The touch sent an electric current up my arm that I immediately filed under “static electricity” and “definitely not sexual chemistry.”

“Right now,” I said, moving to my desk with more speed than dignity. I pulled out the client questionnaire I gave to all couples, a comprehensive twelve-page document that I’d refined over years of experience. “Fill this out. All of it.”

He accepted the packet with raised eyebrows. “Homework on the first day?”

“Planning a wedding requires information, Mr. Burkhardt. Lots of it.” I handed him a pen. “I need to understand your preferences, deal-breakers, and vision for the day.”

“My vision is ‘expensive and impressive,’ anything that will make the guys jealous,” he said, flipping through the pages with growing amusement. “Do I really need to specify whether I prefer buttercream or fondant when I don’t even have a bride yet?”

“Yes. Because regardless of who your bride is, the wedding needs to reflect you as well. Unless you plan to be a silent partner in your own marriage, which, given your personality, seems unlikely.”

He laughed. It was genuine and annoyingly appealing. “Fair point. I’ll complete your interrogation packet.”

“Thank you. And we’ll need to schedule a venue visit as soon as possible. You mentioned the Rhodes Estate. It books up years in advance.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said dismissively. “We’ll get a date.”

I stared at him. “Money doesn’t buy everything, Mr. Burkhardt. Especially not the most exclusive, sought-after wedding venue in the tri-state area, with a three-year waiting list and a rumored connection to actual royalty.”

“You’d be surprised Ms. Marcel. If you’ll make the arrangement, we’ll go see the venue this week.”

“Fine, I’ll make the call.”

“Good.” He settled into a chair and began filling out the questionnaire, looking entirely too comfortable in our modest office. “By the way, what’s your coffee order? This was just a guess.”