“Yep.”
“You’re so lucky,” she murmurs, her eyes going soft as she glances up at me.
I dodge us around a group of people, my hand in the small of her back. She points to a park at the end of the street, then I look back down at her again.
It doesn’t take long to reach the park. Two blocks. At least a dozen sideways glances. I suddenly feel too big, a bit clumsy, and certainly out of my league, because now all I can see is Cara’s soft, pink mouth. Her bright eyes and gorgeous face. The one thing in the world more beautiful than the Pacific Ocean.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do next. It’s definitely going to be foolish.
And totally worth it.
CHAPTER SIX
CARA
TOBY KEEPS LOOKING at me as we enter Prospect Park. We’re finally away from the noise of the street. It’s dusk, and we probably can’t walk for too long before it gets dark, but I don’t leap into a conversation right away.
I slow down instead, and he matches my pace. His legs are longer than mine, but as we walk, that doesn’t seem to matter. Every few strides our arms brush, and after the third time, I laugh nervously.
“Just spit it out,” he teases me quietly.
Easier said than done. “You said Ben’s practically ready to hire a mail-order bride,” I say, drawing out the words.
“Yeah.”
I take a deep breath. “I get why you think he might do that. I was thinking of it, too. For myself.”
He stops abruptly in the middle of the path. “Pardon me?”
I turn around to face him. “Nana has decided I need a husband. To the point where she’s making crazy threats if I don’t show up with a ring on my finger soon. Why not cut out the messy parts?”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Toby speechless before. He has a million ideas a minute, often texting or emailing one conversation while having another in person. He can multi-task like no other.
But right now, he’s not doing anything. Not speaking, not thinking, not working… just staring at me like I’m an alien.
“Say something,” I mutter, feeling all kinds of foolish now that my plan has been voiced out loud.
His face pulls tight into an unexpected scowl. “You can’t…it’s not that simple.”
Even though I feel silly, being told I can’t do something gets my back up. “Are you being overprotective? Because you know how much I dislike that from Ben.”
“If you thought you’d get it any easier by running this past me instead of him, you were flat-out wrong.” His voice is tight, clipped. “What makes you think, at twenty-four, that you need to rush headlong into marrying someone you don’t even know?”
“At twenty-four? What does that even mean?”
“You’re too young to settle!”
“Says the workaholic staring forty in the ass who hasn’t had a real relationship in…ever?”
“Not ever,” he mutters. “And I’m only thirty-five.”
“Is that the official age of adulthood in the deluded universe of Toby Hunt?”
“Have you even tried dating?” He lifts his hands in the air, like he might strangle me—and wouldn’t that be a weird twist to an already strange day. Billionaire murders best friend’s little sister in Prospect Park.
“Sure.”
He drops his hands to his hips and gives me a disbelieving look. “That sounds like not really.”
“Toby—”
“Cara, seriously. Find a nice boy and start dating him.” His face twists, like he’s forcing himself to be lighthearted about this. “Let things progress if you like each other, and when he gets down on one knee, make sure he knows your brother has two muscle-bound best friends who will kick his ass if he doesn’t treat you right.”
“Muscle-bound?”
He flexes his shoulders, his chest straining against his dress shirt, and I know he’s teasing, but there’s a lot more bulk under that blue cotton than I’d noticed before. Then he gives me a terse, crooked smile, and an instruction that knocks the wind out of me. “You should wait until someone lights you up inside.”
Gee, I wish. But after I catch my breath, I make a scoffing sound, because really? That hasn’t happened in twenty-four years.
“I’m serious.” And I can tell he is, the way he’s staring at me like this is the most important lesson he could ever teach me.
My square-jawed, clear-eyed, superhero in full-on big brother mode.
No, not brotherly. A different brand of protective know-it-all. Like he thinks from his hyper-masculine, alpha point of view that anything less than a lusty conquering just won’t do.
In theory, he’s not wrong.
In reality, it’s just not that simple.
“I’m so not a romantic, Toby. But that’s a sweet thought.”
He frowns. “I’m not a romantic, either.”
“You sure sound like one.” I reach out and push my hand against his chest. I mean to shove him gently, but he doesn’t move, and my hand just collides against hard, broad muscles.
Really hard. Extra broad.
My heartbeat gets louder. If I were the fantasizing type, this would be how a lusty conquering would start. Maybe not in the middle of a Brooklyn park.
Probably not with Toby, although any reasons I previously could list for why not are now escaping me.
Has he always been this tall? Yes. But didn’t he used to be skinny?
Definitely not skinny any more. Do you do CrossFit? Not a good question to ask out loud while I’m stroking his chest. But he probably does. I bet all the California CEOs do.
Maybe I should have spent more time paying attention while I was out there.
Except I had dated at Stanford.
Disasters, every single time.
Equal parts of me being too awkward and nobody being quite as hot as Toby is right now. If I’d been up-close-and-personal with a college-version of this, I’d probably have tried harder not to be hopeless.
With extreme effort, I pull my hand back.
No. Crushing. On. Toby.
I’ve heard that sex drives kick in as women get older. I wasn’t fully aware of the possibility of my sex drive kicking into gear in a single day, and revving quite so hard for just one guy.
One off-limits guy, who still hasn’t said anything.
I hover my hand a few inches from his body, my palm itching to touch him again. Over and over again.
Then I step back and laugh, because whoa, that was weird. “So anyway—”
Toby reaches out and catches my wrist, his fingers looping around my arm in a gentle, totally breakable bond. He steps closer, and I stop moving.
He pulls my hand back to his chest, and keeps moving, until the gap between us is gone and he’s curved over me, his hand in my hair. His lips are right above my mouth and every cell in my body is screaming yes!
I didn’t see this coming. From the hammering of his heart against my fingers, he didn’t either.
This is weird.
Weird and good.
Weird and better than good as his breath brushes against my mouth, a precursor to kissing.
Toby is going to kiss me.
Super weird.
My pulse is pounding just as fast as his, and my fingers curl against his shirt.
“What are you waiting for?” I whisper, and he smiles.
“You to shove me away.”
“I’ll do that when you finish,” I breathe.
“I shouldn’t do this.”
“Right.” We’re both breathing hard, and his arms are all the way around me now. Big, strong, flexing arms holding me tight.
He flicks his gaze up to my eyes. “God, Cara.” He eases back just enough to grin at me. “You can’t marry some random guy.”
“Okay.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise…” The word fades into nothing as he lowers his head again, and this time, there’s nothing brushing or light or tentative about it.
T
oby is kissing me, and it’s all-consuming and crazy intense. His lips are soft but insistent, demanding entrance to my mouth, and my brain totally scrambles to obey him. Sure, come on in, tongue. Oh, God, you feel good. That’s new and different and panty-melting, what you’re doing there. I didn’t realize there were so many nerve endings in my mouth directly connected to my clit, but Toby knew.
He knows a lot about kissing.
He could teach classes. Masterclasses. Graduate level instruction in making out and kissing-as-foreplay. His kisses suggest all sorts of things I’m not supposed to know about Toby Hunt.
Like…he’s almost certainly good at going down on a girl. That tongue makes promises.
And when it slides away, I chase it, because more, please. I don’t ever want this kiss to end.
With a groan, he comes back, deeper and hotter, until I’m breathless and aching.
I could totally be convinced to do something seriously foolish with him right now, but he’s smarter than that.
He eases his hands out of my hair, but his fingers linger on my skin, stroking my jaw. His gaze rakes over my face. “That was…”
I nod and shake my head at the same time. Yes. No. God. I rub my cheek against his thumb, soaking up one last second of contact before I set my hand against his chest and do what I promised at the start—I push him away. “That was crazy.”
He gives me a rueful smile. “A mistake?”
“Definitely.”
He steps back, two strides, then halts. His eyes zero in on my mouth and my heart skips a beat. Oh, boy. No good can come of that feeling.
And also, wow, this is what it feels like when someone really wants to kiss you. In this case, kiss me again.
Really inconvenient that the man who wants to kiss me is Ben’s best friend, and a workaholic who lives on the other side of the continent from me.
But for tonight—for this single moment—I’ll take it.
“It’s getting dark,” he finally says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
I nod. “We should get going.”
Neither of us moves at first, until he cracks a smile and turns away from me. Come on, his body language says. Let’s pretend we didn’t just do that.
I’m not sure I can ever forget that kiss. I take a deep breath as we start to walk. “So that’s in the vault, right? Along with my underage drinking and fear of living on the Eastern Seaboard?”
“You bet.”
“You know all my secrets.”
He grunts quietly. “I should probably tell you more of mine, balance that out.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“But you hate New York, right?”
He looks sideways at me, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. “No. I mean, I love California, but I have no geography-based phobias.”
“Mine isn’t geography-based. It’s relations-based. Meddling-based. Smothering-Nana-based.”
“And yet when she says jump…”
I say how high, no matter where I am in the world. “Maybe I’ll go to Australia for my next course of studies.”
“Good plan, troublemaker.”
Our conversation fades as we reach the street again. We stand side-by-side, silently, as he texts his driver to pull his car around to the park. It should be awkward. We kissed. And it was hot.
But it’s not that weird. A little, because deep down, I want to do it again.
But on top of that is a warm, fuzzy sweetness. Toby kissed me. Because he wanted to, even though it’s a terrible idea and we can’t do it again.
A boy wanted to kiss me. A boy who knows how awkward and dorky and vaguely inappropriate I am. A boy who’s really a man.
A man kissed me.
I’d built up this whole narrative around my life where that just wouldn’t happen, not in a good way. Not in a holy hotness kind of way.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, bumping my arm against his.
“For losing my mind?” He laughs under his breath. “Don’t thank me.”
“For being a grown up about it.”
“I promise you that deep down I feel like a teenage boy right now.”
That pleases me, too. I grin like an idiot.
He doesn’t miss my reaction. “You like that?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” A dark sedan slows to a stop in front of us and Toby touches my arm. How many times has he done that before? How did I never notice how good it feels to be moved around by a guy? Especially one with big hands and strong arms. “Come on. Let’s get you home. Tomorrow we fly you away from the Russo madness.”
I’ve always been happy to come home and see my family. And happier still to get on a plane and zoom back to my own life.
For the first time, I’m left wondering if I’ve been running away from all the wrong things, for all the wrong reasons.
And I definitely can’t marry someone who wants a green card.
Nope.
Damn Toby and his magical mouth, making the point I didn’t want to hear. Marriage should be for passion.
But that doesn’t solve my immediate problem of Nana and her well-intentioned but misguided threats.
I need a new plan. Plan 2.0.
Toby opens the car door for me. “Are you coming?”
I nod and hurry after him. Okay, no more thinking about that tonight, because warm fuzzy feelings. But tomorrow, in the cold light of day, I’m going to tell Toby I still need a husband. Not a real one, of course. I don’t want his head to explode.
Just a temporary one.
The only solution is to resort to funny stuff, as Nana would say.
As soon as I get back to Elana’s, I’m Googling how to hire an escort.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TOBY
“NO.”
Cara rolls her eyes and leans back in her seat. We’re halfway to Toronto, but getting nowhere with this conversation. “You’re not giving the plan fair consideration.”
“Because it’s insane.”
“Whatever. You don’t even get a say.”
True enough. I’m just the guy who had his tongue down her throat yesterday. What do I know about her love life, anyway?
Nothing, and it’s going to stay that way. Damn it.
I slept like shit last night, replaying that kiss over and over again in my mind. Wishing I’d pulled her closer and pressed my erection into her belly. Wishing I’d dragged her back to my hotel suite instead of depositing her safely at her sister’s townhouse.
Luckily today was non-stop meetings until it was time to meet Cara at the airport, so my brain was forced to take breaks from inappropriate fantasies about teaching her just how good two people can be together.
Giving up on love at twenty-four. What the bloody hell is that?
Sure, I don’t really believe in love myself, but that’s because I’m jaded with good reason.
Maybe Cara is, too.
No. She’s too…lighthearted, too lovely.
Too innocent.
“You can’t hire an escort,” I grind out. “Aren’t you on a student visa in Canada? Don’t jeopardize that.”
“I’m not going to hire a prostitute.”
“Isn’t it the same thing? You don’t want to get busted for solicitation.”
She stares at me like I’m an idiot. Well at least this conversation has gone a long way toward restoring our relationship to its rightful place.
No kissing. Sibling-ish mocking. Huffing and sighing and…
Jesus, she’s gorgeous when she’s frustrated. Pink cheeks and bright eyes.
She takes a deep breath, then gives me a level look. “Okay, let me start again from the beginning, because I think you may have missed the point of the plan.”
I missed nothing. I just don’t approve of her hiring some asshole to pretend to marry her, so she can tell her grandmother she eloped and ta-da, now she’s married, stop worrying, Nana.
I wave for the fligh
t attendant. If Cara’s going to blithely carry on like our kiss meant nothing, I need a drink.
She’s right to do so, of course. It was momentary madness.
I’ve learned a lot about gut calls in the last fifteen years. Learned how to lean into the bruise that fear leaves, figure out when pain is productive and when it’s destructive, and walk that line carefully.
Everything about kissing Cara screamed danger, and I did it anyway. Everything about backing off feels right—except for this one sharp spot in my chest. It feels very wrong there.
I scowl and tip back my drink as soon as it arrives. “Another,” I demand roughly. I can practically feel Cara’s eyebrows raise beside me, so I add a touch of nicety to the request. “Please.”
Cara leans past me and smiles at the stewardess. “I’d love a glass of cranberry juice, if you have it.”
Juice.
I’m guzzling whiskey and she’s asking for juice.
My best friend’s kid sister.
Yes, backing off is the right thing to do, that spot in my chest be damned.
And the fact that her fingers brushing against my forearm makes me halfway hard? Proof I need to get my head on straight and help Cara out, not stand in her way like some jealous wannabe boyfriend.
If there’s a selfish element there, because maybe I don’t mind her not dating anyone… I’m not going to examine that too closely. “Tell me the plan again,” I mutter, closing my eyes.
She sighs and leans in closer. “You’re the best, you know that? Okay, so I was thinking, maybe I could find a guy to play my fiancé, then my husband, just a couple of times. He’d be Canadian, of course, so when I leave Toronto, we’d regretfully decide to part ways. But it would buy me until the end of my program without Nana threatening to meddle with my grant funding.”
“You know she can’t really do that.”
“I know, but she’s a major benefactor at several Ivy League schools. What’s to stop her from making a million-dollar donation to U of T and causing problems for me?”
I frown. “I could match that.”
She laughs. “Okay, no. No. And also, the last thing we need is some crazy big-league donation battle. That would be weird.”
“This whole thing is weird.”
Personal Escort (Billionaire Secrets Book 2) Page 3