Marching over to him, she plucked the menu from his hands and tossed it on the floor. “I’m not having this argument again.” Her gaze fell to his penis. She couldn’t fight with a naked man. “Put some clothes on.”
He smirked. “Makes you nervous, does it? My being in the buff?”
“Yeah. I’m trembling.”
“You were ten minutes ago. Yes, you’ve had a bad day. But that’s not what this is about, so please don’t insult me. You’ve been upset since you set foot in this house. If you’re still tetchy about this morning, say so.”
“I’m not tetchy. I’m not even sure what that means.”
But he was right. Again. Monica lied about everything—she lived behind a persona she’d created. She’d been running so hard from the mistakes of her past that she’d done a U-turn in her life, and now she was as screwed up as ever. But the lie was comfortable, and the truth seemed almost paralyzing. Buried deep inside, under all the responsible behavior and professional demeanor, Monica’s wild child remained alive and well. And she liked being let off the chain. Monica reveled in hot sex with Cal. She loved the freedom it gave her, the excitement. The emotion.
She’d been lying about her feelings for him too. Monica thought she could handle a no-strings sexual relationship. All of her peppy self-talk about being in control and eyes wide open was bullshit. She’d fallen in love with Calum George Hughes. How could she be so damned stupid? Loosening the tight reins on her old ways had led to this—love. Of all the men she could have chosen, she’d picked Cal Hughes, a man who never stuck around. A man she couldn’t count on. All those years of playing the good girl, dating appropriate guys, living a straitlaced life—blown to bits.
Suddenly, her body was on fire, as though every nerve ending burned beneath her skin. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Monica felt as if her heart might burst through her chest at any moment. Pain, sharp and biting, ripped through her torso. All of these revelations at once—they were too much. Maybe she was having a heart attack. This was what dying felt like. “I have to go.” She spun away. “I have to get out of here.” She began gasping for air. She couldn’t breathe.
He plucked her up in his arms and walked to the overstuffed love seat by the window. Sinking down, Cal held her as she struggled.
“Let go. Let me go.” She pushed against his chest and tried to rise, but he tightened his hold.
“No. You’re having a panic attack. Deep breaths.” When she ignored him and tried to break free, he gave her a little shake. “Deep breaths. Come on. In.” He held her gaze with his own. “And out. Again.” He breathed with her. Inhale. Exhale.
After three or four minutes, Monica’s heart began to slow down. With a shaky hand, she pushed her hair away from her face. “What’s wrong with me?”
Cal stroked her back. “You’re just scared, that’s all.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” But she was lying, of course. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. In truth, Monica was terrified of him, of herself, of her feelings.
She pushed off his lap and stood, feeling a little woozy and so embarrassed, she turned away. Who acted like this? Who had a panic attack after the most amazing sex ever? God, she was a freak. Defective.
“Monica.” He waited until she slowly turned back around. “Let’s stay right here, eat dinner, talk. After that, you can go if you want.” He stood and approached her slowly. With infinite care, he reached out and stroked a hand down the length of her hair. “Okay?”
When she didn’t pull away, he enfolded her in his arms, hugged her tighter in his embrace. Monica hugged him back. Closing her eyes, she took a deep whiff of him and struggled to remain calm.
Then Cal stepped back. “I’ll get dressed.” He strode over to where his clothes lay in a pile and pulled on his boxers and jeans. He held up his T-shirt. “You want?”
She nodded, and he lobbed it at her. Dark green—the same shade as his eyes when he was angry—and it smelled of fabric softener and Cal. Monica pulled it on. The hem hit her above the knees, and the sleeves fell below her elbows.
Her feelings for him frightened her. That’s why she’d freaked out. She’d never felt like this. Not even with Aaron—the asshole who’d abandoned her in Mexico—and she’d been ready to leave her friends and family for him.
Calum Hughes was the real deal. He loved his sister, and he’d cared for Babcock in her final days. But he’d leave. If not tomorrow, then next week, or next month. Cal would take off for Bora Bora or Nepal, and she’d be stuck here in Vegas.
Not stuck. You have your family, your life.
But what kind of life did she have? Was she going to spend the next five years trying to prove herself to Allie and people like Marcus Stanford? The next ten or fifteen? Just the thought of it left her drained. And for what, a job she hated?
Monica covered her mouth with one hand. She hated her job. She hated working at the foundation.
Shit. That panicky feeling threatened to rise up inside her and take over once again.
A look of concern filled Cal’s eyes. “You all right?” He walked over to her, raised his hand to touch her shoulder, but Monica moved out of reach.
“I hate my job,” she said in a rush.
“Yeah, of course you do.”
“No, I hate my job. I need this job.”
Cal crossed to the mini-fridge hidden in the bookcase and grabbed a bottle of cold water. “Why?” He handed it to Monica.
“Because it’s who I am. Allie depends on me. I have to show her I’m responsible. I owe it to my mom.”
“Let’s take those one at a time, yeah? It’s not who you are. You hate it.”
Monica paced to the sofa and sank down. She twisted the cap off the bottle, taking a long drink. She knew Cal wouldn’t criticize her, and because of that, he was the only person she could talk to. “Yeah. I hate it. But I can’t let them down.”
Cal sat next to her. His long fingers stroked her bare leg. “One thing at a time. You hate it.”
She nodded. “I hate it.” After several minutes, she smiled and breathed out a little laugh. “It sucks so hard. I hate the numbers and reading grant applications and having Allie question every decision. I like working with the donors, though.”
“How does it feel to admit it?”
Her gaze sought his. “Scary.”
“That’s okay. If you’re scared, you’re alive. You said you have to prove yourself to Allie. Why?”
Monica flung the bottle onto the coffee table. “Because she’s my sister. Because I’ve fucked up so much in the past. Because I have to show her that I can do this.”
“She’s your sister. She’s not living your life for you. You fucked up in the past? So what? Everyone has.”
She shook her head. “Not like me.”
He scooted to the edge of the couch and faced her. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Most horrific?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She was too ashamed.
“Did you run a red light? Wear two different socks by mistake? You’re a good person—what could you have done that’s so terrible?”
Where to begin? “I was thirteen when my mom got diagnosed. She was sick for a long time. I felt…” She stared at the fireplace grate and shrugged. “I felt like she left me, even though she was still there. Allie quit school and came home to take care of us all. As my mom got worse, so did I. I made life hard for everybody in the family.” It was hard to admit that. Painful.
Cal continued to stroke her face. “You were a child.”
“I was a brat.”
“All children are brats. No exceptions. They’re messy and they smell bad and then they go through puberty. Don’t know why they’re all the rage.”
Monica didn’t laugh. “After she died, I went off the rails. I drank too much. I toked up, took too many pills. I woke up next to strangers, Cal, and sometimes, I couldn’t even remember what I’d done with them.” She took a deep breath and studied his face. He didn’t look shocked or surprised or disappointed. “Four years ago, I met a guy, and after two dates, I let him drive me to Mexico. In the morning, he was gone, and so was all my money. I had to call Evan to come and get me.”