She took the stairs two at a time. No one was allowed up here—Trevor’s orders. He was very put out with strangers fucking up his routine. His words. Repeated often.
Monica didn’t want to go back to her guest room. She’d spent hours on that bed, tossing and turning, miserable without Cal.
She darted into the salon instead. It was her favorite part of the house and overlooked the garden. She stood at the window, watching everyone come and go. And felt completely alone.
When the door opened, Monica turned to see Trevor enter. A pained look crossed his face as he glanced at her. He advanced farther into the room and withdrew a handkerchief from his jacket’s inner pocket. “Here. Mop up.”
Monica touched her cheek. Shit. She’d been crying again. When was this going to stop? She used to be so strong. Closed off. Maybe, but closed off was a lot less humiliating than this. “Thanks.”
Trevor stalked to the booze cart and poured two measures of alcohol. As she sniffled and wiped her eyes, he walked back and handed her a tumbler. “Drink that.” He sank down on the sofa and sipped his own.
“What is it?”
“Brandy. Now, what’s got you all wobbly?”
“Don’t want to talk about it.” She took a sip, and it went down smooth. “Is this old?”
“Older than you and I put together. Now talk. Or you’ll force me to fetch Allison, and neither one of us wants that. She’ll smother you, and she’ll put me to work.”
Monica shuffled to the opposite tufted Chesterfield and flopped down. “I’m just…you know.” She shrugged.
“Ah, of course. Now it’s all so clear.”
She took another sip, enjoying the alcohol scorching a path down her throat. “Cal.”
“Quite.”
“I love him. Like, head-over-ass love.”
“Mmm. My condolences.”
She glanced at him, took in his tailored suit, the blue silk tie. He and Cal couldn’t be more different. “I broke it off with him.”
“Yes, Allie said as much.”
She sipped her brandy and began to loosen up. She hadn’t been eating, and the alcohol hit her quickly.
“Does he love you?” Trevor gazed at her through cool gray eyes, studied her like she was one of his silver saltshakers in the glass case downstairs—with impersonal, mild interest.
“I know he cares about me. Or he did. But I haven’t heard from him in days.”
“Cal had a rather unconventional upbringing.”
“I know that.”
He raised one brow. “Do you? Then you know his father’s never shown an ounce of affection. Pixie is…well, Pixie. Anything that doesn’t affect her directly doesn’t hold her attention for long. Cal was mostly left to his own devices.”
“He had Babcock.”
“Know about her, do you?” He paused with his glass halfway to his lips.
“Yeah. He was with her until the end. He’s a good guy. But he doesn’t stick around.”
“And you want what, true love conquering all”—he motioned with one finger—“happily ever after, and all that rubbish?”
Monica leaned forward. “Watch yourself. You sound a little cynical there, Trev. Since you’re married to my sister, that’s not reassuring.”
“I’m cynical about everyone else, never Allison.” His eyes turned to ice. “She’s a fucking miraculous aberration. But we’re not talking about her. We’re talking about you. What if Cal can’t promise forever? You’re obviously miserable without him. But you’ve been miserable for years, so what else is new?”
She opened her mouth to protest, but what for? “I’m quitting the foundation.” She swallowed the rest of the brandy in one gulp and began coughing as Trevor watched.
“Good,” he said, once she finally stopped. “I’m not one to give advice, and God knows I’m not one to take it, but that job is not right for you. You and Allison could use some distance.” He stood, drained his glass, and rebuttoned his jacket. “I guess you can make up your own mind about Cal, but he did stress that he’d be back.”
“What?”
“When he left for L.A., he said, if anyone asks, I’m coming back. Perhaps that was meant for you. You’ve always been an all-or-nothing person. Maybe there’s room in your life for a little compromise?” He strode to the door and left her sitting alone.
Compromise. Balance. Yeah, she could use some of that. And if she was this miserable without Cal, maybe she could take him on his own terms. Seeing him in intervals…maybe that would be enough. She could make it be enough.
* * *
Cal threw down the wrench and wiped his hands on a plush white rag—a monogrammed rag that used to be a hand towel in its former life. In the last few days, he’d performed tune-ups and changed the oil in the Bentley, the Rolls, the Mercedes coupe, and the Range Rover. There was nothing left for him to do. Not a bloody thing—unless he wanted to tear each car apart and rebuild them, piece by piece. It might very well come to that. He’d never been so…not bored. Restless? Agitated? Yes, all those things, but the root cause felt more like hopelessness.
Cal had become a shell of a person, walking around this vast, stupid estate—listless, with nothing to do but think. All the sunshine, the mild weather—it should have recharged him. Instead, it had the opposite effect.
He bent down and shut the toolbox—if one could call it that. After his father came home, Cal had gone out and bought the basics. George didn’t own so much as a screwdriver, let alone a torque wrench. Cars were Cal’s therapy, but unfortunately, even that wasn’t working right now. But really, what else was there? Play tennis? Swim? Sun himself by the pool? How did Jules stand it out here? Los Angeles held no appeal for him. At least in Vegas he could buy his way into a game of poker or work on the Mustang.
And be close to Monica.
Right. That. She was the reason this horrible, morose feeling had taken him over. How he missed her. Her smile, her scent, her plump upper lip.
Shit. He’d made a pact with himself. No thinking about Monica. No sense in dwelling on what he couldn’t have.
Cal walked out of the garage and stared up at the sky, where white clouds resembling cotton wool drifted to the east. Lowering his head, he glanced at the vibrant garden Tara had planted at the back of the house. Gardens reminded him of Monica. Cal ground his teeth. God, if only he could think about something else. Anything else. But memories of her—her soft, pale skin, her lavender-scented hair, her infectious laughter—flooded his brain every other goddamned minute.
Grabbing the keys to the Range Rover, he stalked back to the garage. He needed to get out. Go for a drive. Somewhere. Anywhere. He simply couldn’t stay locked up one more minute.
Cal started the engine and circled ’round to the front of the house. His father got a little better day by day. He’d be able to go back to work in a few weeks. Cal would be free then. Able to jet off to Budapest or spend the winter in Key West.
Oh, who was he kidding? There was only one place Cal wanted to visit. Visit. That was the problem. Monica wanted something much more permanent than the occasional meet up. She didn’t want him on a part-time basis. She’d made that clear. So why didn’t his brain get the message?
When his phone vibrated, Cal’s heart began to pound. It did every bloody time, and it was never her. He glanced at the screen. His father. Again.
“Yes?”
“Come upstairs.” Then he rang off. No explanation. He didn’t ask; he commanded. And Cal obeyed. He didn’t want to be the one to send the old man back to hospital.
Slamming the car in reverse, he drove to the garage and climbed out. He was trapped here. Like an animal in a zoo. Like Monica in her office.
Cal rubbed the bridge of his nose. He really needed to think about something else. A ’72 Iso Fidia—a car he’d dreamed about since he was sixteen. He could dwell on that rather than Monica’s voice and her fuzzy steering-wheel cover, and the way she made him breathless every time she walked into a room. So stop already, you wanker. If only it were that easy.