CARA

I’m sinking into yet another dream about Toby’s fingers when I realize the sun is pretty warm on my face for the early morning.

With a gasp, I jolt upright in bed. Where the hell is my phone? It’s definitely not breakfast time. The sunlight streaming through the window is mid-morning light.

Mid-morning.

Fuckity fuckers, I’m late.

I throw the blankets off my bed.

Still no sign of my phone. Last night, I was talking to Toby…oh God, the phone sex.

Okay, I’ll freak out about that later. And then…

From under my bed, I hear a muted chime. I leap out of bed and slip on a sock, jamming my toe against the nightstand as I twist and drop to the floor.

First time in my life I’ve ever tried a ninja move like that. Last time, too. Dorks aren’t meant to leap out of bed, ready for action.

I’m not ready for anything.

Action, a fake wedding, responding to…

Toby’s six text messages.

Oh. Sweet. Mercy.

I wince as I sit down on the floor and lean back against the bed frame. I swipe in to my phone. But his texts aren’t about last night.

Oh God. I quickly reply to the last one, then add a belated greeting.

I blink the sleep out of my eye and focus on the clock in the corner of my phone screen. Quarter after nine. I have an hour and forty-five minutes before I need to be two subway stops away.

I’ve got this. It’ll be fine.

Toby in a nutshell. I’m freaking out, he’s cool as a cucumber.

I need coffee first. Good coffee, and fast. I throw on shoes and grab my wallet. In the hallway, I find a neighbor who I don’t know waiting for the elevator.

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.

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.

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.

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 kissed. 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.”