Page 11 of Personal Escort

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.

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