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.

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 heard 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.

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

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.

He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “Thanks.”

“What time is your presentation tomorrow?”

“Noon here, so mid-afternoon for you.”

“I’m going to watch. No pressure.”

He grins at me. “That’s the good kind of pressure. I’ll make sure it’s extra exciting for you.”

“What are you unveiling?”

“A new Bluetooth solid state memory device. I wasn’t sure we’d have it working in time, but it’s pretty slick.”

“Fun!”

“I’ll overnight you a prototype if you want to give it a whirl.”

“I do.” I shift my position, curling my legs up against my chest. I wrap my arms around them and rest my chin on my knees. “But you don’t have to do that, of course.”

“You gotta get some benefit out of being friends with the CEO.”

Right. Friends.

Which means I really should end this call before he finishes his run and pulls that soaking wet t-shirt off his body. “Then I can’t wait to use it.”

I get another wink in response.

“Okay, you’ve made me feel like a total slacker. I’m going to let you go, and get in a run myself.” A total lie. I’m going to end the call and flop out on my bed and replay that wink a dozen times.

He gives me a quick wave. “Talk to you later, then.”

“Definitely. Break a leg tomorrow.”

“It’s not theater.”

“It is in a way. And you’re a star. You’ll slay, I know it.” Then I press the red button that makes him disappear, and toss my iPad aside.

Oh, Toby.

I close my eyes and stretch out. Damp t-shirt, flashing smile, dirty wink.

He hadn’t meant it to be dirty, of course. But too late, my imagination was already running wild and free, looping those images backwards now. A wink, a smile, and then that t-shirt, now peeling up and off his body.

Into the shower with you, Mr. Hunt.

I’ll wash your back.