Page 17 of Personal Escort

Okay, so maybe he’s not as crazy as his sister. “Good plan. I approve, by the way. That’s the way to do it.” Find someone that lights you up inside.

Bright eyes, soft lips.

“You should take your own advice,” Ben says.

Probably. But I’m not going to, not any time soon. No woman can hold a candle to the only one who is completely off-limits to me.

CHAPTEREIGHT

CARA

MUCH OF THE U of T campus is picturesque and ivy-covered, but the building that houses my faculty is a tall, modern, glass-and-concrete structure. I’ve had three offices—all shared—in the year that I’ve been here, and now I’m moving into yet another. For the summer, I’ll use the empty office next door to my advisor so I can help with a big research project she’s just received a grant for.

And in return, she’s put her name on my grant applications for the fall, although those are now in peril, thanks to my grandmother.

I shake my head. Nana doesn’t really understand how my world works—although to be fair, she has more reach than most grandmothers do.

I’m just packing up the last of my things when my officemate arrives for the day. I like Helena well enough as a colleague, but our work schedules and practices never aligned, so I’m secretly happy about heading upstairs.

I’m careful not to show that, though. Nobody likes a bragger.

She gives me a polite nod, then pulls out her headphones and crawls into her work. Okay, then. Not like I was going to offer to meet up at the grad pub anyway, but…

See ya, Helena.

The usual prick of disappointment I feel after an awkward encounter like that fades when I get an unexpected text as I’m settling into my new space.

Toby: Have a good work week, troublemaker.

Cara: I’ll do my best. You too!

And I do have a good work week. So busy, my plan to find a fake fiancé stalls out as my advisor’s big project for me grows in scope.

Adding a pretend wedding on top of all that work would be ridiculous, I admit to myself mid-week.

So I let it slide until the Friday afternoon, when I find a white envelope in the mail slot at my apartment building. The paper is smooth and thick, and smacks of a limited run done by a high-end New Yorkpaperie. I don’t need to look at the return address, written in flowing script, to know the letter is from Nana.

I wait until the ancient elevator has carried me up to my sixth-floor unit before opening the embossed envelope. An honest-to-God, gilded stationery piece of correspondence. This can’t be good. My panic returns to the top of the To-Do-Or-Die list even before I read her careful handwriting.

Dear Cara,

I was so pleased to hear you have a change of heart about looking for love. So to that end, I’ve hired the services of a well-regarded Toronto matchmaker…

The letter falls out of my hand and flutters to the floor as my fingers immediately slick with sweat.

Oh, no. No, no, no…

I spin around grab for my phone. Toby’s number is in my Fav List. I stab at his name, then press the phone to my ear. My hand is shaking, and that just gets worse when he doesn’t answer.

Shit.

I huff out a breath and stare down at the letter. Might as well read the rest of it before totally freaking out.

Nope, too late.

I lean over and grab it.

… Toronto matchmaker. Expect a phone call from them early next week to set up an appointment. You’ll need to attend a number of meetings as they pay extraordinary attention to detail so as to find you just the right man.

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