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I looked down at the untouched cup he’d brought me. “Why?”

“Professional curiosity. If we’re going to be working closely together for the next three months, I should know how you take your coffee.”

“We’re not going to be working that closely,” I corrected, though my traitorous brain immediately conjured an image of exactly how closely we could work, possibly on a desk, definitely with fewer clothes.

I mentally forced it back into professional mode.

“And my coffee preferences aren’t relevant to planning your wedding. ”

“Humor me.”

I sighed. “Oat milk latte, double shot, with a dash of cinnamon. No sugar.”

He nodded, looking oddly satisfied. “I was close. I went with almond milk.”

“Fascinating,” I deadpanned. “Now please fill out the questionnaire while I call the Rhodes Estate to begin arrangements.”

“Of course.” He returned to the questionnaire, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your process.”

Somehow, I doubted that very much.

I spent the next hour trying to work on other client matters while hyper-aware of Callan’s presence. He filled out the questionnaire, occasionally chuckling or raising an eyebrow at certain questions.

Mari, meanwhile, made approximately eighteen unnecessary trips to the copier, each time finding a new angle from which to ogle Callan. By trip twelve, she’d abandoned all pretense and was essentially doing a slow lap around his chair while pretending to organize file folders.

Devonna wasn’t much better. She’d reapplied her lip gloss three times and somehow found reasons to ask Callan if he needed anything every four minutes. The last time, she’d actually asked if his pen was “performing satisfactorily” in a voice usually reserved for phone sex operators.

I was about to suggest they both take an early lunch—possibly in Antarctica—when Callan finally handed the questionnaire back to me.

I was almost afraid to look.

Wedding colors? “Money green and stock-option black. Though I’m open to something more traditional, like Gold Trust Fund and Platinum Merger.”

First dance song? “Haven’t thought about it. ‘Gold Digger’ maybe? Or perhaps ‘Billionaire’ by Travie McCoy. If I’m feeling traditional, ‘Money, Money, Money’ by ABBA.”

Preferred cake flavor? “Whatever doesn’t clash with my future bride’s dress. Do cakes and dresses clash? Is that a thing wedding planners worry about? If so, chocolate. Dark, like my soul. But expensive, like my watch.”

My eye twitched as I flipped through his responses. They just got more and more inappropriate as I went through them. A vein pulsed in my forehead, but I forced myself to remain professional despite wanting to strangle him with his undoubtedly custom-made tie.

“This isn’t helpful,” I said finally, placing the questionnaire down.

“I thought I was quite thorough.” He leaned back in his chair, the picture of innocence. “Question twenty-three was particularly thought-provoking. I’ve never considered whether my wedding party should coordinate their underwear with the overall color scheme.”

“That’s not—” I stopped, narrowing my eyes. “That question isn’t on the form.”

“No?” He widened his eyes in mock confusion. “Must have been my own addition. I got carried away with the spirit of planning.”

Mari snorted from across the room, not even pretending not to eavesdrop. “I vote yes on coordinated underwear. And I volunteer to be on the underwear selection committee. As your wedding planner’s business partner, it’s practically my duty.”

“Mari!” I hissed.

“What? I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being inappropriate.”

“No, I’m being efficient,” she countered. “If we’re planning a wedding with a bride to be named later, someone has to think about these critical details.”

“Mr. Burkhardt,” I began, summoning what remained of my professionalism.

“I think we’re at the ‘Callan’ stage now, don’t you? Considering I’m about to pay you a million dollars to find me a wife.”

“I’m not finding you a wife,” I corrected through gritted teeth. “I’m planning a wedding. Your spouse acquisition is your own problem.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” He leaned forward, suddenly all business. “The wedding and the bride are a package deal. I need both, within three months, to win the bet.”

“That wasn’t part of our agreement.”

“It was implied.”

“Nothing in wedding planning is implied, Mr. Burkhardt. That’s why I have a twelve-page questionnaire and contracts with more clauses than a Christmas movie marathon.”

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. Let me be explicit: I need your help finding a suitable bride as well as planning the wedding. Consider it... an extension of your existing services.”

“We’re wedding planners, not matchmakers.”

“But you have connections throughout the social scene. You know which society daughters are looking to settle down, which divorcées are back on the market, which career women might consider a strategic partnership.”

I stared at him, appalled. “You’re talking about women like they’re companies ripe for acquisition.”

“I’m talking about mutually beneficial arrangements between consenting adults. No different from the dozens of strategic marriages that happen in high society every year.” He shrugged. “Just with more honesty about the underlying motivations.”

“This is insane,” I muttered, but my mind was already racing despite myself. I did know several women who might consider Callan’s proposal, not that I’d ever admit it to him.

“Is it?” he challenged. “Or is it simply pragmatic? Marriage has been a business transaction for most of human history. I’m just removing the romantic delusions.”

“Clearly you’ve never been in love,” I shot back.

Something flickered across his face, so quickly I almost missed it. “Love is irrelevant to a successful partnership. Honestly, compatible sex partners seem to have more successful relationships than the average ‘love match’ marriage.”

“Yeah, well my ex-fiancé would probably agree with you,” I said before I could stop myself. “He found a more compatible ‘sex partner’ in a client, it would seem.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

I never discussed Austin with clients or anyone outside my immediate circle.

It was unprofessional and irrelevant and exactly the kind of personal detail Callan Burkhardt would file away to use against me later.

Mari’s eyes were wide across the room, and she exchanged a glance with Devonna, who’d frozen as she’d been applying her fifth layer of lip gloss.

Surprise registered on Callan’s face, followed by something that looked disturbingly like genuine interest. “I didn’t know?—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I cut him off, standing abruptly. “And it’s not pertinent to our current situation.”

“On the contrary,” he said, his voice softer than I’d heard it before. “It seems highly pertinent.”

“Well, it’s not,” I insisted, shuffling papers to avoid meeting his gaze. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to create a project plan for this... arrangement.”

To my surprise, he stood without argument. “Of course. I’ve taken up enough of your morning.”

I nodded, still annoyed at myself for revealing that personal detail.

“For what it’s worth,” he added, pausing at the door, “he was clearly an idiot.”

Before I could respond, he was gone.

Mari materialized at my side almost immediately. “Well, that was interesting.”

“That’s one word for it,” I muttered.

“He’s into you,” she declared with absolute certainty.

“He’s into himself. And winning his bet,” I corrected. “I’m just a means to an end.”

“Mmm-hmm. And I’m just casually interested in that bartender at Whiskey Blue.” She perched on the edge of my desk. “So, what’s the plan?”

“First, you and Devonna need to take cold showers and remember you’re professionals,” I said, shooting her a look. “I’ve seen less obvious displays of lust at actual orgies.”

“You’ve never been to an orgy,” Mari scoffed.

“No, but I’ve planned three wedding after-parties that turned into them, and trust me, you two were worse. Devonna asked if his pen was ‘performing satisfactorily.’ His pen, Mari.”

“Can you blame her? I’m surprised she didn’t offer to be his personal pen. I would have.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“No idea.” Mari shrugged.

I took a deep breath, shifting into planning mode. “First, I need to create a comprehensive timeline. Then we’ll schedule the venue visit, start researching vendors who can accommodate the expedited schedule, and draft a bride acquisition strategy.”

“A what now?”

“If he wants help finding a suitable spouse, we’ll approach it like any other wedding element. Systematically, efficiently, and with impeccable taste.” I was already opening a new spreadsheet. “We need categories, criteria, vetting processes.”

Mari stared at me. “You’re creating a wife recruitment strategy presentation.”

“It’s a streamlined matrimonial candidate identification protocol,’” I replied, already color-coding cells. “With accompanying flowcharts.”

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

“I’m approaching it professionally,” I corrected, though there was a small, twisted part of me that found satisfaction in reducing romantic partnership to the same process Callan seemed to view it as.

If he wanted a business transaction, I’d give him one, complete with performance metrics and quality control.

“What metrics are you using to evaluate potential wives?” Mari asked, peering at my screen. “Ooh, is that a compatibility matrix? With weighted scores? Anica Marcel, you beautiful, psychotic genius.”

“It’s not psychotic to be thorough,” I sniffed, though I had to admit the multi-stage evaluation process might be a tad excessive. But then, so was trying to find a bride in three months for a billionaire with the emotional depth of a kiddie pool.

“Does physical attraction get a score? Because if so, you should just put yourself at the top of the list and call it a day.”

“I’m not putting myself anywhere near this list,” I said firmly, ignoring the tiny, traitorous part of me that had already calculated my own compatibility score with Callan.

(67.4%, which was concerning given how much I disliked him.

Apparently, my spreadsheet had a thing for blue eyes and financial stability.) “And before you ask, neither of you are getting on this list either.”

Three hours later, I had created a comprehensive PowerPoint presentation, complete with timeline, potential candidate profiles (anonymized, of course), and a detailed action plan.

It was possibly the most thorough, most ridiculous document I’d ever produced, and I’d once created a twenty-page contingency plan for a hurricane-threatened beach wedding that included evacuation routes and emergency raccoon removal procedures.

As I put the finishing touches on a particularly satisfying Gantt chart, I felt a strange sense of accomplishment.

If Callan Burkhardt thought he could rattle me with his unorthodox request, he was sorely mistaken.

I was Anica Marcel, wedding planning extraordinaire.

I could plan anything, even a wedding for a man without a bride.

Now I just had to ignore the voice in my head warning me that while I might be able to plan the perfect wedding, dealing with Callan Burkhardt himself would be the real challenge.

And that was before factoring in the unwelcome flutter I’d felt when he smiled at me—a reaction I attributed entirely to sleep deprivation and possibly a mild coffee overdose, and absolutely not to the way his voice dropped slightly when he’d called my ex an idiot, or how his fingers had lingered on mine when he handed back the questionnaire, or the brief moment when I’d caught him watching me with an expression that wasn’t smug or arrogant but genuinely curious.

Professional. This was strictly professional. And it would stay that way, no matter how good he looked in that suit or how intriguing his rare moments of genuine humanity might be.

After all, I’d learned my lesson about mixing business with pleasure.

I wasn’t about to make that mistake again. Even for a billionaire with a smile that could power the Manhattan skyline and a butt that, as Mari so eloquently put it, deserved its own Forbes profile.