Monica didn’t know much about British accents, but she recognized a posh one when she heard it. And despite the rumbly tenor and foul words, his accent was as high-end as it got.
When he retreated one step and rose to his full height—well over six feet—Monica’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. His torso was bare, without an annoying shirt to mar the smooth expanse of deeply burnished skin.
She licked her dry lips and adjusted the collar of her blouse. As she continued to gawk, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, causing the muscles of his back to contract ever so slightly. Monica swallowed as she took in the line of his broad shoulders. When he raised a hand to brush the hair off his forehead, powerful muscles bunched and rippled in a graceful, fluid motion. Monica blinked slowly, practically hypnotized. Oh crap, he had a tattoo. Starting at the cap of his right shoulder and ending on his bicep, a set of interconnecting Celtic knots and swirls decorated his skin. Wait. She knew that tattoo.
Calum Hughes was back in town.
Fan-fucking-tastic. Monica’s disastrous day just took a nosedive.
She inhaled deeply in an effort to slow her racing pulse, and reminded herself she was immune to bad boys now. Well, not immune so much as on the wagon. Though after Cal, it had taken Monica awhile to her get her shit together, she had been a bad boy–free zone for four years. Four very long years. She only went for nice men now. Respectable men. Men with real jobs and life goals. Like her ex, Ryan.
That reminder helped dispel the lusty fog that clouded her mind. With firm resolve, Monica pulled herself together, straightened her spine, then averted her gaze, forcing her feet to move.
She resumed walking to the house, but he must have heard the click-clack of her heels this time, because he spun around quickly. Determined not to be diverted again, Monica kept moving. But she couldn’t help giving him one last side-eyed glance.
“Good morning,” he said.
Now that he’d spotted her, Monica couldn’t just ignore him. Adjusting her sunglasses, she stopped and turned to face him fully.
Monica may not have immediately recognized Cal’s back, but she’d know that face anywhere. With a stubbled jaw and angular features, he was more arresting than handsome. Shallow grooves formed brackets around his mouth, which tilted noticeably higher on the left side when he smiled. Deep, pleated lines framed those spring-green eyes. Time had only made him more attractive.
No, not attractive. That was too benign a word. He had a strong, masculine presence, an attitude of casual self-assurance mixed with sex appeal that would entice any woman with a pulse. Monica definitely had a pulse, and hers was approaching the red zone.
She remained silent for a moment, waiting to see if he would recognize her. And as she waited, her gaze traced downward. While his biceps weren’t bodybuilder huge, they were well defined. He had the look of someone who developed them in real life, not by pumping iron in a gym. His solid, carved abs stood out in relief, the tanned skin molding over them, contouring the hollows between each distinct muscle. God save the Queen, it was getting hot out here.
A trickle of sweat slid from the back of her hairline, working its way down her neck and disappearing beneath the collar of her white blouse. Immune, the sane part of her brain protested.
“My God, it’s you.” He strode forward, tight jeans riding low on his hips, pulling at his thighs with each step, and stopped just a foot away. He smelled of motor oil and sunshine. That shouldn’t be such an intriguing combination. “Monica Campbell.” The way he whispered her name sent a quiver shooting through her belly.
Now he stared at her, his body motionless—then without warning, he reached out and whisked off her sunglasses in a lightning-fast move. His gaze held hers, searching—for what she couldn’t say—but his grin kicked up a notch. “I wondered if I’d remembered correctly. If your eyes were really that blue. They are. Your hair’s different though, shorter. As I recall, it used to be curly.” With his free hand, he reached out and rubbed a strand between his fingers. “Still soft,” he rumbled low in his chest.
Monica forgot to inhale for a few seconds. Okay, so he still remembered her. It didn’t mean anything, not really, not to a man like him—a man who probably had sex as regularly as he drank beer: each night, after a full day of hammering on a dilapidated engine. Monica was probably just a notch he couldn’t add to his undoubtedly high pussy count, and that made her stand out. Still, the fact that he hadn’t forgotten that kiss flooded her with relief. His tongue stroking hers, his hand hot on her breast, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure…she’d never forget it. That night in the garden, the smell of roses crossed with Cal’s woodsy scent—epic.
Cal’s gaze flowed over her again, but slower this time, like an intimate stroke up and down her body. He took in everything, from her plain white blouse to her black jacket and slacks, all the way down to the sensible pumps on her feet. “Who died?” he asked.
“What?”
“You look as if you’re in mourning.” As he dropped her hair, he dipped his chin, nodding over the length of her. “Are you going to a funeral?”
Funeral? This was a perfectly acceptable pantsuit—black, classic cut. From Nordstrom. The sale rack, but so what? “No one died. I’m a professional. I wear clothes that reflect that.” She jerked the sunglasses out of his hand and settled them back on her nose. She felt less exposed with the dark lenses covering half her face.
“A professional what?”
Monica wasn’t going defend her life choices to Calum Hughes. She’d kissed him five years ago, and it was never going to happen again. Time to move on. She had a to-do list two miles long. Her schedule was all fucked up. Right. She’d actually forgotten about it for a moment. The sight of Cal had scrambled her brain. “I need to go, or I’m going to be late for my meeting.” There. That sounded in command and unaffected. Of course, she clutched her computer bag to her stomach like it was a shield. Monica tried to subtly loosen her grip.
Cal’s laugh was gruff, jagged. The sound made her nipples strain against the lace cups of her bra. She ignored them, glad her suit jacket concealed her breasts so thoroughly.
“The Monica I met a few years back wouldn’t give a toss about a meeting. You have grown up, then.”
So had he. Five years ago, he’d still retained a hint of boyishness, a softness in his face, a twinkle in his eyes. But now his face was leaner, his cheekbones sharper. And his eyes were a bit more wary. “It happens to the best of us,” she said. “I take it that’s your car?”
“Yeah, just bought it.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you think? It’s not much to look at right now, I’ll grant you, but it has potential.”
One of the many losers Monica had dated over the years had owned a Mustang. Dustin Something. According to him, Mustangs were money pits. For every one problem he’d fix, three more popped up. Since he talked endlessly about it, she recalled more about the car than the guy who drove it—air-cooled engines and drippy cowl vents and lots of rust. “If you say so.”
He glanced back at her, eyes zeroing in on her lips. “I’m good at spotting a diamond in the rough.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.” She forced herself to glance away. The fine sheen of sweat coating his muscle-carved chest was starting to make Monica a little light-headed. She couldn’t retreat to the house fast enough. If she didn’t go now, she’d be tempted to do something stupid, like trace her fingers across Cal’s tattoo, then follow it up with her tongue. “Good to see you again.”
She turned on her heel and took one step before Cal’s big, callused hand snagged hers, pulling her closer to his side. She looked down, noticed how large and tanned it was in comparison to hers. His nails were super short and clean, despite the fact that he’d been toying with an engine only moments ago.