“I think I have issues.”
“No,” he gasped, “not you.” He took a sip of Patrón and wiggled his toes. “Monnie, my friend, we all have issues.”
“I mean with my mom. When she got sick, I felt scared and alone, so I started looking for affection in losers, thinking if I could conform into what they wanted, I’d be worthy. I even did that with Ryan.”
“Oh God, stop, I’m begging. All this navel-gazing is going to make me drink until I pass out, then my eyes will be puffy tomorrow. Look, I date crazy orange women with big, fake tits. Probably because my dad paraded cocktail waitresses and showgirls in front of me during my formative years. You work with what you have. But, Mon, I know you.” He set his glass on the table and turned to her. “I know you. You’ve never been in love before now. Maybe Cal is good for you.”
She shoved the spoon into the ice cream and set the carton next to his glass. “I just broke up with him. Not that we were really together.”
“Despite your criticism of my advice, I’m going to leave you with one more nugget of wisdom. If you find love, grab it. You don’t know when or if it will come around again.” Fine lines fanned out from the corners of his brown eyes. For once, he wasn’t being a smart-ass.
“I can’t think about it anymore tonight. I’ve got a board meeting tomorrow and a gala to cancel. How about you? How’s Hope?”
“Heather. We broke up. She hated my clothes and accused me of being color-blind. And why don’t you just have the gala at Allie’s house? She’s got that fricking mansion. The garden is big enough to hold everyone. Have tents or whatever out there.”
She stared at him. “That’s insanely brilliant.”
He shrugged. “I have my moments.”
So the next question—give Allie advance notice, or bring it up at the board meeting? Allie would feel pressured at the meeting, less inclined to say no. Monica was determined to make this event happen by any means necessary. She could ask Allie’s forgiveness later.
“Can I take a shower?” she asked. “And borrow some sweats to sleep in?”
“Like I own sweats.” He waved a hand toward the hallway. “You know where everything is. Go on, and I’ll make up the sofa. I’m not giving you my bed.”
“Thanks.” Monica tapped the side of his face with her palm and headed down the hallway.
“Hey,” Evan called.
She turned around. “Yeah?”
“It’s all going to be all right. Your sucktastic life, I mean.”
“Sure it is.” Evan must have been drinking something stronger than tequila if he really thought that. Nothing ever turned out okay. Not her mom, not her job, not her terrible decisions with men. Although Cal didn’t feel like a bad decision. He felt just right.
But if Monica had taken a chance on Cal, she’d never be secure. Even though he’d offered her regular intervals. That was a big compromise for him. But security was important to her. More important than spending time with the love of your life? Whoa. Who said Cal was the love of her life? Except that he kind of was.
Cal was unlike anyone she’d ever met. She couldn’t pigeonhole him, couldn’t put him in a box. Just when she thought she might have him figured out, he would reveal something new and wonderful about himself. And the sex was off-the-charts amazing. She couldn’t imagine letting another man touch her ever again, let alone make love to her. Monica wanted only Calum.
So where did that leave her? Monica should have opted for the tequila—maybe then her brain would stop dashing back and forth and the pain in her heart would dull to bearable levels.
In Evan’s bright aqua bedroom, she chose a pair of sea-green boxer shorts and a Ralph Lauren T-shirt from the dresser drawer. After grabbing a quick shower in his guest bathroom—Gucci towels, naturally—she shuffled back to the living room.
“Do you need another blanket?” Evan asked, carefully unfolding the zebra-print duvet.
“No, I’m good. Thanks, Ev.” He patted her arm as he headed to his bedroom. Monica climbed beneath the Egyptian cotton sheets. They weren’t as soft as the ones in Cal’s villa.
She pulled the silk duvet up to her chin and looked out over the Vegas skyline. Neon lights as far as she could see.
Monica stared at them until the sun came up.
* * *
Monica Campbell was naked—not a bloody stitch. She lay between his legs, her hair trailing over his hips. She smiled right before her mouth slid over him, taking the length of him deep in her throat. Heaven. Then she gazed up at him and started buzzing.
Cal pried one eye open, realized he’d been dreaming. Monica wasn’t here. She’d left last night, broken things off for good.
He fumbled around for his phone on the bedside table. “What is it, Jules?”
“He’s had a heart attack.” Her voice sounded tremulous.
Cal sat up, his heart still pounding from the dream. “What? Who?”
“Father. Mummy just called. I have to get back home immediately.”
Shit. “Are you still at Allie’s house?”
“Yeah. Will you go home with me, Cal?” She sniffed. “I need you.”
“Of course, but slow down. How serious is it?”
“I don’t know.” She cried in earnest now.
“Is Trevor around? Let me speak to him.”
“I’ll get him.”
“Jules? It’s going to be all right.” He hoped that was true. For her sake, for his stepmother’s. When Cal had failed to return Jules to L.A., his father had been positively livid. Cal wasn’t sure what kind of welcome he’d receive from his stepmother, either, but he’d stick by Jules’s side and see her through.
A moment later, Trevor’s cool voice said, “Terribly sorry about this, Cal. Is there anything you need? I could book you a private flight.”
“Yes, actually. Thanks for that. And Trev, if anyone asks, I’ll be back. Do you understand, mate? I’m not leaving for good.”
“I won’t get rid of the Mustang, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“It’s not. Get Jules to the airport, and I’ll meet her in less than an hour.”
Suddenly, he was very glad he’d spoken to Pixie the night before. If anything happened to his mum and they hadn’t made up, Cal would never forgive himself. Although he’d never have his father’s approval, none of that mattered now. His father might be dying, and Cal wanted to say good-bye.
He threw back the covers and nabbed the clothes littering the floor. Monica. He reached for the phone to call her, but remembered she never wanted to see him again. But no time for that now, he needed to get to Jules.
Four and a half hours and countless tissues later, Cal and Jules arrived at the hospital. His little sister was a mess, her eyes nearly swollen shut from crying so hard.
In the waiting room, his stepmother, Tara, sat in a corner. Jules ran to her, throwing her arms around her mum’s shoulders. Cal stopped in the doorway and stared at them. Unequipped to deal with this kind of thing, he never knew what to say.
As he walked toward them, he held his hand out to Tara and flung his arm around Jules’s shoulders. “How is he?”
His stepmother was a very quiet woman. The exact opposite of Pix. “He’s going to be all right. He’s had a mild heart attack and needs a pacemaker.”
Cal closed his eyes in relief. “That’s good news.”
“The doctor says if he doesn’t slow down, the next one could do him in.”
Not so good news. The old man would never slow down—it wasn’t in his nature.
Cal settled Jules in a chair, then he bent down in front of Tara and patted her knee. “How are you holding up?”
Wispy blond hair framed her face. Her skin looked pasty, and dark rings circled her red eyes. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for bringing Jules home.”
“You’re welcome.” He glanced between the two of them. Poor Jules looked pale, scared. “Tea. That’s what we all need.” He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile and went hunting for some. Babcock’s cure-all, sans the brandy.