Personal Escort Page 4

  I give Ben a call that night.

  “Did you get my sister safely back to her dorm?”

  “She lives off-campus in a condo.”

  “Unchaperoned?”

  I laugh. “Very.”

  “I don’t approve.” He huffs a sigh. “When did she grow up?”

  “Somewhere around the same time you started to feel old.”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said, you know. About making some changes.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m officially in the market for a wife now.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him his entire family is crazy, but I can’t break Cara’s confidence. “I saw that coming a mile away. Are you going to do some sort of reality TV show to find one? Russian mail-order bride?”

  “Tempting, but no. I’m going to try it the old-fashioned way, first.”

  Okay, so maybe he’s not as crazy as his sister. “Good plan. I approve, by the way. That’s the way to do it.” Find someone that lights you up inside.

  Bright eyes, soft lips.

  “You should take your own advice,” Ben says.

  Probably. But I’m not going to, not any time soon. No woman can hold a candle to the only one who is completely off-limits to me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CARA

  MUCH OF THE U of T campus is picturesque and ivy-covered, but the building that houses my faculty is a tall, modern, glass-and-concrete structure. I’ve had three offices—all shared—in the year that I’ve been here, and now I’m moving into yet another. For the summer, I’ll use the empty office next door to my advisor so I can help with a big research project she’s just received a grant for.

  And in return, she’s put her name on my grant applications for the fall, although those are now in peril, thanks to my grandmother.

  I shake my head. Nana doesn’t really understand how my world works—although to be fair, she has more reach than most grandmothers do.

  I’m just packing up the last of my things when my officemate arrives for the day. I like Helena well enough as a colleague, but our work schedules and practices never aligned, so I’m secretly happy about heading upstairs.

  I’m careful not to show that, though. Nobody likes a bragger.

  She gives me a polite nod, then pulls out her headphones and crawls into her work. Okay, then. Not like I was going to offer to meet up at the grad pub anyway, but…

  See ya, Helena.

  The usual prick of disappointment I feel after an awkward encounter like that fades when I get an unexpected text as I’m settling into my new space.

  Toby: Have a good work week, troublemaker.

  Cara: I’ll do my best. You too!

  And I do have a good work week. So busy, my plan to find a fake fiancé stalls out as my advisor’s big project for me grows in scope.

  Adding a pretend wedding on top of all that work would be ridiculous, I admit to myself mid-week.

  So I let it slide until the Friday afternoon, when I find a white envelope in the mail slot at my apartment building. The paper is smooth and thick, and smacks of a limited run done by a high-end New York paperie. I don’t need to look at the return address, written in flowing script, to know the letter is from Nana.

  I wait until the ancient elevator has carried me up to my sixth-floor unit before opening the embossed envelope. An honest-to-God, gilded stationery piece of correspondence. This can’t be good. My panic returns to the top of the To-Do-Or-Die list even before I read her careful handwriting.

  Dear Cara,

  I was so pleased to hear you have a change of heart about looking for love. So to that end, I’ve hired the services of a well-regarded Toronto matchmaker…

  The letter falls out of my hand and flutters to the floor as my fingers immediately slick with sweat.

  Oh, no. No, no, no…

  I spin around grab for my phone. Toby’s number is in my Fav List. I stab at his name, then press the phone to my ear. My hand is shaking, and that just gets worse when he doesn’t answer.

  Shit.

  I huff out a breath and stare down at the letter. Might as well read the rest of it before totally freaking out.

  Nope, too late.

  I lean over and grab it.

  … Toronto matchmaker. Expect a phone call from them early next week to set up an appointment. You’ll need to attend a number of meetings as they pay extraordinary attention to detail so as to find you just the right man.

  The right man isn’t answering his phone. Also, he’s off-limits. And way older than me. And Ben’s best friend. And he lives in California…

  Wait.

  My heart pounds in my chest. No, Toby isn’t the right man. Not for me.

  But that mouth…

  Well, yeah, anyone who’d been kissed like that would think they might like another taste. That’s normal.

  My phone rings, surprising me. I squeak and jump and die a little inside as I flop to the floor. Toby’s name is flashing on the screen.

  “Hi,” I say as I answer it.

  “What’s wrong?” Oh God, he’s all sleepy. His voice is warm and rough and sounds like sex.

  Did I interrupt sex?

  Did he call me back after I interrupted sex?

  Except the sleepy… That doesn’t make any sense. “Where are you?”

  “Tokyo,” he mumbles. “It’s almost five in the morning.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “It’s okay.” His words slur together before he takes a long, slow inhale, then grunts. “I’m up. I’d have to get up in half an hour anyway, I have a breakfast meeting with Sony people.”

  “Fancy.”

  He laughs and I picture him stretching. What does he sleep in when he’s traveling the world? Pajama pants that hang low on his hips? Boxer briefs? Nothing?

  I suddenly want more of that picture. Not just the X-rated, Toby-is-built-like-an-Olympic-swimmer picture, but all of it. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Park Hyatt. They know how I like my bacon.”

  “That’s what you’re having for breakfast?”

  “Always. But they’ll have these little Japanese pastries, too, and tea.”

  “I’ve had the tea there. Elana took me with her on a trip once, and we did the high tea service. And then we went to a shrine…”

  “I should have brought you with me, you probably know more about being a tourist here than I do.”

  “How many times have you been to Japan?”

  “Half a dozen at least. Always whirlwind trips.”

  I shake my head and smile. “That’s no fun.”

  “This is what I’m saying. You need to teach me the way, Cara-san. Now why did you wake me up in the middle of the night?” he asks gently.

  “Ah, it’s…nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Is this about your need for a groom?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d dropped it.”

  “I kinda had. And then Nana sent me a letter.”

  “An email?”

  “No, an honest-to-God letter. Nice stationery and all.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “She’s hired a matchmaking service to find me a mate.”

  “Huh.” His single-syllable sound is short, clipped, and hard.

  “This can’t happen, Toby.”

  “Right.”

  “I should just tell her to back off.”

  “Yes, you should. But you won’t.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper.

  He sighs. “Then tell her you’ve met a guy.”

  My breath catches in my throat.

  “Plan 2.0,” he murmurs more gently than I deserve. “Time to kick it into action. Whirlwind love affair in three, two, one…”

  “What’s his name? I haven’t even thought of that.”

  “Ralph.”

  I snort. “No.”

  “Blake.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “No. How about Alex?�
��

  There’s a pause at his end, then he clears his throat. “Sure.”

  “I hope the actor I find looks like an Alex. I’m doing this all backwards.”

  “Actor?”

  “You had a good point. I probably can’t risk hiring an escort. An actor might be more money, but—”

  “I’ll hire the escort for you. I mean, it’s important that it be someone who understands the role. An actor sounds…risky.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.” I chew on the corner of my lip. “I probably shouldn’t involve you in this at all.”

  “And yet here I am, waiting for the sun to rise on the other side of the globe, happily involved. Don’t worry about that.”

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Nana, but I actually met a guy this week. Sounds good?”

  “Sounds great. Keep it simple. The best lies are as close to the truth as possible.”

  “I met him on the plane back to Toronto. He called me later in the week, and we’re having coffee this weekend. I can’t, in good conscience, agree to start seeing other people when he’s all I can think about.” I can feel my mouth curving into a smile as the story blooms to life.

  “Alex sounds like a great guy,” Toby says gruffly.

  “Don’t worry, he’s going to break my heart. He’ll refuse to move to Australia with me.”

  “And that’ll be the end of that.”

  “Yep.”

  “Go call your grandmother.”

  “And you kick butt with your meeting with Sony.”

  He laughs. “They’re trying to impress me, troublemaker.”

  “Right. I should know that, shouldn’t I?”

  “Nah. It’s refreshing that you don’t.”

  When we hang up, I pick up the letter again. Talking to Toby did the trick. I’m not stressed anymore. It’s going to be just fine. I take a deep breath, and dial my grandmother’s phone number.

  CHAPTER NINE

  TOBY

  I LAND late Sunday night at the San Francisco airport, bone-tired and grateful to have a driver waiting to whisk me home to Palo Alto. I spend the thirty-minute drive drowsily going through my public email account.

  I have a couple of private ones, too, but all of our customers know they can email me at toby@starfishinstrumentation.org and I will see it. Sometimes only whizzing by in a blur on nights like this, but I have a team of excellent customer service people who ensure that everything there gets properly responded to.

  A name catches my eye and I tap the screen. Mike Rodriguez. I roll my neck as I read the message. It’s apologetic in tone. He’s been a customer from early on, but his latest batch of transmitters didn’t pass his company’s internal quality assurance check.

  That’s shitty, though it does happen.

  But my blood runs cold as I keep reading. It’s the third time it’s happened in the last year, and he’s afraid he needs to cancel the standing order.

  Mike Rodriguez. The name is still echoing in my brain, like it should mean something more than just a disappointed customer.

  I lean forward and get my driver’s attention. “Sorry, Vince, change of plans.” I rub the heel of my hand into my eye. “Let’s stop and grab some coffee at the first opportunity. Then take me to the office instead of home.”

  After we hit Starbucks, I switch over to my personal messages. It’s nearly three in the morning in Toronto, but I still click on her name first in my messaging app.

  To my surprise, it shows her as online.

  Toby: Landed at SFX. Heading to work now.

  Cara: No rest for the wicked. How was your flight?

  Toby: Boring. No pretty girls selling me on a long con game.

  Cara: Har har har.

  Toby: How goes your romantic relationship with Alex?

  Cara: I’ve started keeping a journal about him.

  Toby: What?

  Cara: Okay, it’s more of a log. Just so I can keep the fictional woo-ing straight.

  Toby: Smart.

  Cara: We had brunch today. It was lovely. And we held hands the whole way back to my place.

  Here’s the weird thing about jealousy. It doesn’t matter if the guy is real or not. It doesn’t even matter if the asshole has your middle name, not that Cara knows that.

  I’m still burning up at the idea of Alex holding her hand and walking her home.

  Cara: I didn’t make a note of whether or not he came in. Nana wouldn’t ask that.

  Toby: He didn’t. A chaste kiss goodbye at the door.

  Cara: Not that chaste. We have to like each other enough to rush to the altar.

  Toby: Right. Because he’s waiting for marriage.

  Cara: Ooh, that’s good.

  No, that’s called self-preservation.

  Toby: Do you have a timeline for when you want this to happen?

  Cara: Nana was surprisingly understanding. I don’t think I’m in a huge rush. Maybe in a month or two? Have to let the courtship unfold.

  That will get me past the annual shareholders meeting.

  Toby: That makes sense. And shouldn’t you be in bed now?

  Cara: Maybe I was up late texting with Alex.

  Toby: Maybe Alex should respect your need for a solid eight hours.

  Cara: LOL

  Cara: Good night, Toby

  CHAPTER TEN

  CARA

  THE NEXT WEEK FLIES BY. I spend my days listening to interviews with research subjects and comparing what I hear to the written transcripts which have been coded with qualitative data analysis. I’m looking for audio cues that change the words used, that might undercut the analysis based on text alone.

  It’s fascinating stuff, but repetitive after a while.

  So I spend my evenings planning both my fake wedding and my fake courtship, because the former is inevitable when I’m fully in charge of the latter.

  Since we’re eloping, we could just go to City Hall. But that poses the logistical problem of us not actually getting married, because Alex is going to be played by some random guy Toby’s going to source for me when the time comes. We can hardly get a real wedding license, and I don’t think the City Hall people would be down with a fake one.

  No, I’m going to have to hire a wedding officiant who is fine with performing some kind of commitment ceremony, knowing there’s no paperwork, just for photographs.

  Nana has no idea the hoops I’m leaping through to make her happy.

  On the weekend, I take the ferry over to Toronto Island, and imagine doing it with Alex. Or Toby.

  It hasn’t escaped my notice that my log of Alex-related activities echoes my interactions with Toby.

  Monday: Alex had to work late, but he sent me a quick text to say hi. That was sweet.

  Tuesday: Tried to play it cool, because this is all new and we’re just getting to know each other, but I saw a billboard that I knew would make Alex laugh, so I texted him a picture of it. He sent back a GIF of a laughing horse. I’ve looked at it every day since.

  Wednesday: We talked on the phone tonight. Discussed weekend plans. Might go to Toronto Island.

  Thursday: Looking forward to the weekend. Alex has been working non-stop on something big at work, he’s distracted.

  That something big is Toby’s annual shareholder meeting, now just a week away. Like a lot of tech CEOs, he’s also the face of his company, and this is his chance to present something new and exciting to both the shareholders and the market at large.

  He hasn’t talked about it much, but when he has, he’s sounded worried. I want to ask him about it, but I don’t want to pry, either.

  It’s a weird thing, shifting a relationship that has been firmly established as one thing—brother’s friend, grown-up mentor—to another. A real friendship, as unexpected and weird as that sounds. But with a single, amazing kiss, Toby burst into technicolor in my life, and now I find myself wanting to talk to him every single day.

  Which explains why I’m antsy on Sunday morning. I haven’t hea
rd from him since Thursday. And when he texts me, the ridiculous smile that blooms across my face is almost too much.

  I don’t care.

  Toby: Morning. What are you up to?

  Cara: Super exciting laundry.

  Toby: Oh yeah?

  Cara: I scored two washers right next to each other.

  Toby: Your condo doesn’t have laundry in it?

  Ah, billionaire expectations. I’m surprised he didn’t ask me why I don’t just send it out to a service.

  Cara: Nope.

  Toby: Damn.

  Cara: I like the ritual. It’s fine.

  Toby: Right, that makes sense.

  Cara: How about you? Flying somewhere on a private jet today?

  Toby: Ha. You know I don’t have one of those.

  Cara: Yeah. Why don’t you?

  Toby: I like the ritual.

  Cara: LOL touché.

  Toby: That’s true, actually. But it’s also a cost-benefit thing.

  Cara: Ah.

  Toby: How long will you be doing laundry.

  Cara: Another hour, probably. I’m about to put everything in the dryer.

  Toby: I’ll call you after that?

  Cara: Can’t wait.

  He didn’t reply again, and I was left staring at that last text. Why did I say that? Okay or sounds good would have also worked. Can’t wait. Jeez, way to sound needy, Cara.

  We talk on Monday night and Tuesday at lunch, and on Wednesday, too, when he suddenly sounds excited about the shareholder meeting.

  “We do this every year, and I always worry and push and stress, and then it works out just fine,” he says, shaking his head ruefully at the camera. We’re on video for this call, because he says he has to get a run in or he’ll go mental, and when he’s running, it’s easier for him to have a conversation on video. So he’s on a treadmill in his office in Palo Alto, and I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed in Toronto, holding my iPad and watching his t-shirt get soaked with sweat.

  I am not complaining about this video request in the least. Thank heavens for light-weight cotton.

  “I’ll be sure to remind you of that next year,” I tease.