Page 8

Sure, Blame The Ducks

CALLAN

I was running late on purpose.

Some people might call it childish, but I preferred to think of it as strategic. After all, I didn’t become a billionaire by playing by other people’s rules. And showing up exactly when expected was decidedly boring.

Besides, there was something entertaining about imagining Anica Marcel standing outside the Rhodes Estate, checking her watch every thirty seconds with increasing irritation.

Her perfect posture growing more rigid by the minute, those full lips pressing into that thin line they formed when she was annoyed.

Not that I’d been cataloging her expressions.

I glanced at the dashboard clock: 6:31 AM.

I was officially thirty-one minutes late.

Perfect timing. Long enough to be irritating but not quite long enough for her to give up and leave.

I downshifted my Aston Martin and turned onto the long, tree-lined drive that led to the estate.

The familiar mix of nostalgia and discomfort I always experienced when visiting this place made me grin like I had as a little boy in the same place.

The Rhodes Estate sat on fifty acres of pristine countryside about an hour outside Manhattan; close enough for convenience but far enough to feel like an escape.

The sprawling Georgian mansion with its immaculate gardens had been a wedding venue for the elite since the 1950s.

My grandmother had gotten married here long before I’d made my first million, a fact she reminded me of approximately every third conversation.

She liked to remind me that she did fine before I started to provide for her, but she also didn’t complain about the house I’d bought her.

I spotted Anica immediately, standing by the stone fountain at the entrance.

She wore a sleek navy dress that hugged curves I’d definitely been thinking about since our last meeting.

Her dark hair was twisted into some complicated updo that exposed the elegant line of her neck.

Even from a distance, her body language screamed “planning a homicide.”

I parked directly in front of her rather than in the designated lot, watching with satisfaction as her eyebrow twitched.

When the valet approached, I handed him my keys with instructions to “keep it close. We might need to make a quick getaway if the wedding planner decides to weaponize her clipboard.”

“You’re late,” she said as I stepped out of the car, not bothering with a greeting.

“Traffic was terrible,” I replied, offering her one of the coffee cups I’d had Erika arrange from that ridiculously expensive place in SoHo. Oat milk latte, double shot, with a dash of cinnamon. No sugar. The fact that I remembered her exact order fueled the smirk on my face.

“It’s 6 AM,” she countered, accepting the coffee with visible reluctance. “The only traffic was the ducks crossing at the park.”

“Vicious creatures. Completely disregarded my right of way.” I adjusted my cuffs with exaggerated seriousness. “One of them made direct eye contact while deliberately slowing down. I’m pretty sure it was personal.”

A fleeting smile crossed her face before she suppressed it. “Did you challenge it to a duel at dawn?”

“I considered it, but the duck had the tactical advantage. Very low center of gravity.”

She took a sip of coffee, and there it was—the slight widening of her eyes, the almost imperceptible relaxation of her shoulders. “It’s cold,” she lied, taking another long sip.

“Probably the ice in your veins cooling it down,” I replied cheerfully. “Shall we? I believe Ms. Windsor is already calculating how many minutes of tardiness translate to years in etiquette purgatory.”

Anica looked stunning in the morning light, her skin practically glowing against the dark fabric of her dress.

As she turned to walk toward the entrance, I allowed myself a moment to appreciate the view.

Her dress wasn’t particularly revealing, but it didn’t need to be.

It hugged her curves with the reverence of a Renaissance sculptor discovering marble for the first time.

And when she glanced back at me with narrowed eyes, I couldn’t help but notice how the sunlight caught the fullness of her lips and the gentle swell of her chest as she took an irritated breath.

God, she probably rocked a bikini. I needed to find a way to get her to my island to test that theory.

“Are you coming, or would you prefer to waste more time?” she called back, clearly catching me in my appraisal.

“Just admiring the architecture,” I replied, jogging a few steps to catch up.

“The building is in the opposite direction.”

“I was referring to your dress. Italian design?”

She shot me a look that could have frozen lava. “Our agreement included no inappropriate comments, Mr. Burkhardt.”

“Callan,” I corrected. “And that was a professional observation. You have excellent taste.”

“In everything except clients, apparently,” she muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

I laughed, amused by her quick wit. Most women either simpered in my presence or treated me with excessive deference. Anica Marcel did neither, and it was refreshingly... stimulating. I adjusted my trousers as I followed her.

We approached the oak doors of the main house. The Rhodes Estate represented everything I both aspired to and rejected; old money, tradition, expectations. The weight of family legacy embodied in stone and wood.

“The main house was built in 1904,” I whispered as we walked inside.

“The original owner was a railroad baron who wanted to impress his much younger second wife. The east wing was added in the 1920s, and the gardens were redesigned in the 1950s by some Japanese master who apparently made the Rockefellers beg for his services.”

Anica glanced at me with mild surprise. “You know quite a bit about the place.”

I shrugged. “My grandmother made sure I knew.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, her professional mask slipping as she took in the soaring ceiling of the main hall, with its intricate plasterwork and crystal chandelier. “The proportion of the windows to the wall height is perfect for photography.”

“My grandmother got married here in the late 1960s,” I said, though I hadn’t planned to share this detail. “Said it was the happiest day of her life. Before my grandfather turned out to be a serial philanderer with a gambling problem, of course.”

“Is that why you want to get married here? Family tradition?”

“God, no,” I said quickly, rebuilding my walls. “It’s just convenient. And it’ll impress my friends, which is the whole point of winning the bet.”

The softness vanished from her face. “Right. The bet. How could I forget the romantic foundation of this entire arrangement?”

Before I could respond, a sharp voice cut through the hall.

“Mr. Burkhardt. You’re late.”

The voice preceded the woman, who appeared from a side door.

I was tall at six foot three. Judith Windsor was almost taller.

Between her rigid posture and her silver hair pulled back in a bun so tight it performed double duty as a non-surgical facelift, she was terrifying.

Not to me of course. Nope. I definitely didn’t take a step back.

She wore a tweed suit in a shade I could only describe as “disciplinarian beige,” accessorized with a pearl necklace that looked like it was cutting off the blood flow to her ability to experience joy.

“Ms. Windsor,” I greeted her with my most charming smile, the one that worked on everyone except my grandmother and, apparently, dragon ladies who guarded exclusive wedding venues.

Well, and my wedding planner. Maybe I was losing my edge…

“Lovely to see you. You haven’t aged a day since my grandmother’s last charity gala. ”

“Flattery is the refuge of the unpunctual,” she replied crisply, her British accent so pronounced it sounded like she was auditioning for Downton Abbey .

Her gaze shifted to Anica, assessing her from head to toe.

“And you must be the wedding planner my assistant mentioned. I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding.

Rhodes Estate doesn’t arrange viewings without both parties present. Groom and bride.”

“I’m sure, and I completely understand. I’m representing the couple,” Anica began, slipping into professional mode.

“We don’t do proxy arrangements,” Ms. Windsor cut her off, holding up a hand. “Rhodes Estate isn’t for just anyone. We have standards to maintain.”

She pronounced “standards” the way most people might say “last line of defense against barbarian hordes.”

Irritation rose in my chest. This was exactly why I avoided these old-money circles despite my wealth. The constant judgment, the unspoken rules, the assumption that new money wasn’t quite good enough.

“My grandmother is Vivian Burkhardt,” I reminded her. “I believe that meets your standards.”

“Of course, Mr. Burkhardt. We so appreciate your grandmother’s events,” she conceded with a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“But tradition is tradition. We need to meet the bride before proceeding. Rhodes Estate is very selective about who celebrates their union here. We’re not some banquet hall off the interstate that hosts six weddings a day with a karaoke machine and a chocolate fountain. ” She shuddered at the mere thought.

“Of course not,” I grinned. “There are much better uses for chocolate in liquid form.”

Anica elbowed me in the ribs, and opened her mouth, but I spoke before her.

“I can see there’s been some confusion though, and I certainly apologize for that.

” It was obvious Ms. Windsor was about to dismiss us, and I moved before my brain could catch up, wrapping my arm around Anica and pulling her into my side.

“But she is the bride,” I said, reaching for Anica’s hand and lacing our fingers together before she could react. “This is my fiancée, Anica Marcel.”