He gives me an absent smile. “Been waiting a few minutes,” he says.
Oh no.
I head for the stairs. We’ll call the jog down them further ninja training. For today is the first day of the rest of my bad-ass life, or something like that.
In the lobby, I see a sign on the elevator door.
Out of Service
Would have been nice if they’d put one of those on each floor to let us know. I run outside and down the block to the coffee shop there, only to find another sign, this one more formal.
A Toronto Public Health closure notice, framed in no-go red.
CLOSED
Okay, Universe. I get it. This is karma for trying to trick Nana.
But my coffee shop, too? How many times have I grabbed a latte here? Am I lucky I’m still alive?
My stomach twists. I could go two more blocks to Starbucks, but the lineup will be insane, and I’m already eating into my shower time.
I trudge back to my building, and up the six flights to my floor again.
Neighbor guy is still standing in front of the elevator.
“It’s out of service,” I mutter before letting myself into my apartment.
Cara: Went for coffee before my shower, and my favorite place is closed because of an unclean kitchen. And the elevator here is busted. This is a bad sign, right?
Toby: It’ll be fine.
Cara: What are you doing up so early? Did you know I’d need a pep talk?
Toby: Something like that.
I send him a heart emoticon before heading into the bathroom to get pretty before my next freak-out.
It comes as I slide my Metropass through the reader in the Bloor/Yonge station. The turnstile beeps and I push through, but I immediately regret it. In front of me are two teenagers giving me a what-the-crap-are-you-wearing-lady look, and behind me there’s a big crowd, shoving me forward.
I twist away from everyone, angling toward the wall. First I tuck my TTC card away, then I pull out my phone.
My fingers shake as I open an email window and begin to type in the name Alex. It auto-fills with his email address.
I huff out a breath and try to figure out what to say. Sorry, couldn’t get on the train. Best of luck with your next escort gig. I’ll pay you extra for the trouble of being stood up.
But I don’t have a signal. I move backwards, trying to find the faint connection that’s sometimes on the platform. Nothing.
With a squeal, the train pulls into the station and the doors open.
If I don’t get on, I’ll be late.
It doesn’t matter if you’re standing him up.
It matters, though.
I can go dump my fake fiancé in person. I push into the crowd getting onto the nearest subway car.
Two stops. Four minutes on the train, but it feels like a lifetime. I wanted to get here early, but it’s almost five to eleven when the subway slows and pulls into St. George Station. I’d been clutching my phone in my hand like a security blanket, even though I can’t call Toby from underground.
But now I stow it back in my clutch and take a deep breath.
The platform is busier than usual. There’s a tour group of German backpackers standing right in front of me, and I move around them, looking for a guy holding flowers.
Why didn’t I ask for a picture?
Maybe because that would make this real.
My pounding pulse says this is pretty damn real as it is.
I stop and take another deep breath.
Taking the breaths isn’t the problem. It’s letting them out that my body seems reluctant to do. Maybe hyperventilating will get me out of this whole thing.
Dear Nana, I meant to elope today with dear Alex, but I lost consciousness instead. Obviously am allergic to marriage. So sorry.
People keep looking at me.
I get it. I’m in a wedding dress and definitely too made up to be heading to the university. And I’m a freaking hot mess ten seconds away from a meltdown.
I turn around again, looking for—
Toby.
He’s leaning back against the wall. He’s wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie. Slim-fit, all of it, making him look even taller than his usual six-foot-plus.
And there’s an orchid pinned to his lapel.
A small orchid bouquet in his hand.
He pushes off the wall and walks toward me.
“Cara,” he says, stopping in front of me. “You look beautiful.”
I blink at him, not understanding what is happening. I mean, I get it. He’s here. Alex clearly bailed.
Great, even my fake groom doesn’t want me.
But how?
“I haven’t seen the photographer yet,” he says. His mouth keeps moving and the words slowly sink in, but the more he talks, the less in synch this whole moment is. Mouth. Words. Not matching up.
“Where’s Alex?” I finally ask, cutting him off.
“I’m Alex.”
“No…” All the other words slam into my brain. We’re going to have an audience in a minute. Photographer. How do you want to do this? “You’re…my Alex for today?”
“I…” He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m Alex, period.”
I look up at him, all the pieces falling together. There was never an escort. All of this adventure was carefully orchestrated for me to never have— “What?”
“We don’t have a lot of time to do this, gorgeous. But I’m…an Alex. Your Alex. That wasn’t the original plan, but as soon as you picked that name, I knew I couldn’t let…” He shrugs and gives me a lopsided grin. “We can fight about this in a minute if you want. I’ve got a limo upstairs. The photographer can wait for us.”
He’s got a limo.
I keep repeating things in my head, hoping the echo will make sense of what’s going on. “This wasn’t a prank?”
“God, no.” He slides his wallet out of his back pocket and flips it open. I take the California driver’s license he hands me.
Tobias Alexander Hunt.
“You’re actually an Alex.”
“I am. And I’d like to be your Alex.”
“What…How…When…” I hand back his license, then shake my head. “We can’t do this.”
“Of course we can.”
“Toby!”
“Elope with me. For real or pretend, I don’t care.”
I laugh, and once the hysterical edge catches, it doesn’t let go. Toby takes my arm and guides me to a corner of the platform. I lean back against the wall and he lets me laugh until my sides hurt and my eyes water. “Now that’s crazy.”
He leans in, close enough for me to get a whiff of his aftershave, which makes my heart ache, but not as much as the warm words he murmurs in my ear. “I love you.”
That just makes me laugh harder, which is awful, because I love him, too.
But this is not the way to go about anything.
I wipe the tears from the corner of my eyes, then hiccup.
Oh, crap. When did my laughter turn to legit tears? I screw my face up and shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Toby hands me a cotton, monogrammed handkerchief and brushes a kiss against my cheek. “No, this was a terrible idea. All on me. Shit. I take it all back.”
“Don’t take it back.” I shake my head. “Not the last part.”
“All on me?”
“No, before that.” I press the cotton to my cheeks, to the corner of my eyes, then take a deep breath and wiggle my fingers between us, finding his hands as I blink up at him. “Did you mean it? About…”
“Loving you?” He gives me a lopsided grin. “Yeah.”
“When…How…Why?”
“Over sushi. Probably before the kiss, but that definitely helped solidify some things. In hindsight, probably since you were barely legal and wicked smart.”
“Toby!”
His grin gets broader. “Don’t hate me for that. I never fantasized about you naked until after we kiss
ed. Definitely legal, then.”
“Last night wasn’t just a one-time thing?”
“I sure as hell hope not.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll marry me. Just the fake thing you’ve already set up. Let’s tell your family we eloped, because we’re crazy, and crazy about each other, and see where things go from there.”
I search his face for any sign of doubt or sympathy or charity. I find none. “Yes.”
“Yes?” He drops his forehead to mine and grins. “Yes.”
“I’ll fake marry you, Tobias Alexander Hunt.”
“That’s a start.” He cups my cheek and kisses me, softly at first, then deeper when I part for him. Butterflies take flight in my chest as his lips move against mine, soft and sweet and oh so knowing.
Click. Flash.
“You must be the happy couple,” calls the photographer from the other end of the platform. “I was wondering where you’d gone.”
Toby pulls me close. “Show time.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TOBY
I CAN’T STOP TOUCHING Cara, because I can touch her. And every time I do—when I take her hand, brush my fingers up her arm, or hold her close—she gives me the biggest smile.
Apparently, this isn’t the first elopement photo shoot the photographer, Tanya, has done. After she introduces herself, she runs us through the basic shots she likes to get. To get us a good set of thirty pictures, she wants to take a couple hundred, so she encourages us to just do our thing and let her click-click-click without too much interference.
Easier said than done, like this entire thing.
“When did you get here?” Cara asks as she snuggles into my side in the limo, Tanya at the other end of the stretch vehicle.
“Yesterday morning,” I murmur against her temple.
I don’t miss the way she quietly sucks in a breath. “So last night?”
“I was just down the road.”
She ducks her head, her cheeks pink.
“I’ll make up for that this afternoon,” I promise, and a shudder racks through her body. “If you want.”
Instead of answering, she presses even closer and tips her face up so we can kiss.
The ride to the location on campus where we are meeting the officiant only takes a few minutes. It would have been a ten-minute walk at most, but I’m glad we have the car. As soon as we’re done with the photographer and the officiant, I’m going to want to be alone with Cara—and the back of a limo is plenty enough privacy for my purposes.
The photographer gets out first, giving us a moment alone which I take full advantage of. Then I step out and offer my hand for my pink-cheeked, bright-eyed bride.
“You’ve thought about how we’re going to explain this to Ben?” Cara asks. The lilt of her voice and the lightness to her step promises she doesn’t really care if I have.
That’s my troublemaker.
“I have. I’m going to tell him I fell in love with you in the most unexpected, ordinary way. That one phone conversation turned into another and another, each one longer than the last, because talking to you became the most important part of my day.” I cup my hand around her upper arm and point toward the official-looking guy heading our way. “I’m going to tell your brother the truth. That I woke up one day and realized I loved you, and knowing you’d want an elopement on your terms, I came to Toronto and surprised you.”
“You’re going to tell him the truth,” she whispers. “So we don’t need to lie.”
“And because it’s a pretty decent love story, too. Is that our guy?”
She nods. “I think so. Mr. Graham?”
“Ms. Russo, a pleasure. And this is your unconventional beau?”
She laughs. “I must apologize, Mr. Graham. It turns out I’m the unconventional one. Toby—I mean, Alex—is a closet romantic.”
I extend my hand. “Tobias Alexander Hunt. The romantic, at your service.”
We get unofficially married under a stone archway.
“Do you, Tobias Alexander Hunt, commit your life to this woman? Do you take her to be your partner in all meanings of the word, to support her and nurture her in her life’s endeavors?”
“I do.”
“And do you, Cara Elizabeth Russo, commit your life to this man? Do you take him to be your partner in all meanings of the word, to support him and nurture him in his life’s endeavors?”
She nods before saying, “I do.”
As the officiant flips a page in his leather folder, we exchange a look that replaces any other vows we might need to make. What about Australia? I ask her. We’ll figure it out, she promises back.
And we will.
“As we do not have an exchange of rings—”
“We do, actually.” I flash Mr. Graham an apologetic smile for interrupting. “I wanted to surprise Cara.”
“Cara’s surprised,” my bride says faintly, her eyes wide.
I reach into my inside pocket and snag the platinum band, yellow diamonds set flush inside the woven design. I don’t need the officiant’s script for this part. “Cara, I give you this ring as a symbol of my endless love, our enduring friendship, and the adventures still to come.”
She holds out her hand, and I slide it onto her shaking ring finger. Then I keep going, drawing her into my arms so I can dip her back and seal my promise with a kiss.
The officiant waits until we break apart, then he gives us an approving nod. “I now pronounce you officially committed in a way that makes you happy and still pleases your family.”
Cara blushes. “About that…”
He waves her off. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had stranger requests. And who knows. Maybe one day you’ll want to make it official, and if you do, then you know how to contact me.”
I shake his hand, then Cara slips an envelope out of her clutch and hands it over.
“Thank you again,” she murmurs.
He departs, and we’re left with the photographer, who takes one look at my face and suggests just a few more poses there under the archway.
“That sounds great,” I manage to growl, and Cara’s blush deepens.
I’m already counting the seconds until I get to explore just how far it extends beneath that dress.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CARA
TOBY DOESN’T SAY anything on the short drive to the Park Hyatt, just holds me close. Every muscle in his body is engaged, flexed, and ready for action.
Blush-inducing action that I can’t wait for.
I consider telling him we could go to my place, but then I remember my blanket-tossing fit that happened while looking for my phone. My bedroom looks like a bomb went off.
We can wait until tomorrow for Toby to discover his fake wife is a lousy housekeeper.
He holds my hand as we cross the lobby. When we get in the elevator, he presses me against the paneled wall and kisses me senseless. And then when we’re finally high above the city, he carries me, both of us laughing, over the threshold of the Algonquin Suite.
“Wow, this place is pretty,” I say breathlessly as he sets me down in the bedroom.
Bedroom. Ha. I think the private part of the suite is bigger than my entire apartment. I walk through a sitting area, decorated with incredible art. Off to the side I spy a massive bathroom, and then I stop. In front of me is an imposing four-poster king-sized bed.
“Pretty doesn’t really do it justice,” I add weakly. I should think of a better adjective to describe the suit, but all I can see is the bed, and all I can feel is my heart hammering in my chest.
“That’s how I feel about you,” Toby says, stopping behind me. His hands land on my hips, then squeeze up my waist. He drops a kiss on my shoulder. “Can I unzip you now?”
I twist, and wrap my arms around his neck. “Eager, Mr. Hunt?”
“Very, Mrs. Hunt.” The heat in his eyes underscores how serious he means that name.
“That’s not official,” I whisper.
“It is in all the ways that matter to me,” he murmurs back, lowering his mouth to cover mine.
“Should we talk?” I gasp the question as he kisses down my neck. “You know, before we do something foolish like fall in love in a doomed, Romeo and Juliet kind of way?”
“I’m not taking poison with you, Cara. And I’ve already fallen pretty hard.”
“Right.”
He licks a delicate line along my collarbone, then drifts lower again, kissing across the top of my breasts, making me moan for more. “Unzipping would allow me to keep going in this fashion.”
“But—”
He growls and picks me up, swinging me into his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. He cups my cheek in his hand and gives me a stern look. “I love you. I haven’t missed that you haven’t said it back, so either you’re scared or not there yet. I’m fine with either. I’m there. Here. All the way in, however you need me. You want to go to Australia to do a PhD? I’ll visit as often as I can and we’ll become masters at cyber-sex. You want to come back to Stanford? I’d support that a thousand percent. You want to live in New York? We can make that work, too. I love you, Cara. I’ll give you the moon. But right now, I want to be inside you. I want to show you how good this can be, too. I want to make love to you.”
“I haven’t said it because every time you say the l-word, my brain goes a bit fuzzy and my heart threatens to explode,” I whisper, pushing right up against him. “I didn’t even know this was possible until like two hours ago.”
“Right.” His eyes go glossy as I lean in, and he gives me a sloppy grin. “Like a good fuzzy?”
“The best kind. The full-of-joy kind.” I kiss the corner of his mouth. “I love you too. I. Love. You. And I have no doubt this will be good.”
He takes another kiss, this one plundering and deep, and when his hands slide back up my spine, I don’t stop him from unzipping me.
He spreads his legs wider beneath me as my dress puddles around my waist. His hands slide around my torso to cup my small breasts, leaving a restless trail of need on my skin. I lean into his touch, aching for more already.
Personal Escort (Billionaire Secrets Book 2) Page 8
