Cal strode inside the house. The air felt cool and smelled a bit stale. He took the curving stairway to the second floor and down the long, wide hall to his father’s bedroom. George had been ensconced in there for nearly two weeks and was chomping at the bit to get back to work.
The household had descended into chaos when George first got home. Cal had caught him on three separate occasions looking over stock profiles. The man couldn’t stop himself, and as a result, his blood pressure was still far too high. But the old man eventually made a bargain with Cal. George could talk to his secretary for ten minutes each day, if he agreed to stop disrupting the staff’s schedule and quit hounding Tara about every domestic decision. That seemed to do the trick.
Cal stood in the doorway. “You rang?”
George waved him in. “Yes, come. Sit. I want to show you something, and I think you’ll be pleased.”
Doubtful. George held out a folder, his expression rather smug.
“What is it?” Cal asked.
“I said sit down. Read it for yourself. Your mother did teach you how to do that much, didn’t she?”
Suppressing a sigh, Cal moved to a bedside chair and lowered himself. He stretched out his legs and crossed one boot over the other. Then he snatched the folder and skimmed the first page. Irritated, he lifted his gaze to his father and shook his head. “No. This is not happening.”
“You haven’t even read the bloody thing.”
“I don’t want to be in your will. Give it all to Tara and Jules.” He tossed the file on his father’s legs.
The nurse, dressed in plain blue scrubs, walked into the room. “Time to take your vitals,” she said in a singsong voice.
“Woman, can you not see that I’m busy right now? Come back later.”
This one was older and less nervous than the previous five. She ignored the old man by grabbing his wrist and studying her watch. George tried to pull out of her grasp, but she held on tight.
He snarled at her, then turned his focus back to Cal. “Look, I can admit when I’m wrong. Fortunately, it doesn’t happen often. But you’ve been here for Tara and Juliette, and I’d like to show my appreciation. It’s merely a token.”
“Send me a fruit basket. I don’t need your money, and I don’t want it.”
George rolled his eyes, and as the nurse attempted to wrap the blood pressure cuff around his arm, he slapped her hand. “Get away from me. I’m trying to have a conversation here.”
Cal glanced up at her and smiled. “Can you give us five?”
She shot George a hateful glance. “I’ll give you ten.” She marched out of the room, mumbling under her breath.
“Making friends wherever you go,” Cal said.
“I pay people. I don’t need friends. So what are you going to do with yourself after all this?”
“I don’t know, really.” Without Monica, Cal felt worse than when he’d stayed in Cairns, puttering around the beach all day. He felt rudderless. Lost without her.
“You could stay in California,” George said. “It’s not too bad, you know. Perhaps we could find something useful for you to do, rather than play with cars all day.”
When Cal was eighteen, he would have loved to hear that sentiment—if not those exact words—from his father. But Cal had made his own way in the world, was respected in his field. The old man might not understand that, but it didn’t matter. Calum knew who he was. “No thanks. I’m glad you’re feeling better, Father.” Still pale, George appeared older and frailer than his years. That disapproving man from Cal’s memories had now become less of an ogre and more human.
“Suit yourself. I was only trying to do the right thing. Now take this file on your way out.”
Cal left the room, tipping his head to the nurse in the hallway. Downstairs in the pink floral living room, he found Jules.
“I thought he looked better today,” she said. “Is he still being an ass to the nurse?”
“As ever.” He sat and tossed the file on the coffee table. He sighed heavily and glanced at the roses in varying shades of pink and white in a small glass vase.
“God, I’m tired of hearing that,” Jules said.
Cal glanced up at her. “What?”
“You, sighing constantly. Like a leaky tire. Have you called her?”
Not wanting to talk about Monica, he stood, retrieved the folder, and headed to Father’s study. Jules padded after him.
“Have you?”
“It’s none of your fucking business, Jules. Leave it.” Cal had never spoken so harshly to his sister. He turned, and another sigh escaped him. Damn, she was right. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“No shit. But it might help, you know. Instead of moping around here all day, like some brooding, wet bloke. You’ve lost weight. You can’t sit still. You’re bloody miserable. You’re in love with her.”
Cal stopped at Jules’s words. “No, I’m not. What nonsense. Two grown people can share admiration and mutual respect. That’s all it was.”
“Uh-huh.” Jules crossed her arms. “So you don’t miss her?”
Of course he missed her. She was vital, like sunshine or fresh air. “It’s complicated, Jules. At your age, I don’t expect you to understand it.”
She laughed then. “My age? Monica’s only five years older than I am. I’m not a child, and I can see how you’re pining away for her.”
“You’ve been watching too many romantic movies,” he accused. He turned around and continued walking. Pining. What a word. Yes, he craved Monica. Longed to feel her touch again. Catch a glimpse of her lovely face. He needed her. Desperately.
Oh God, he’d been pining.
When he stopped again, Jules ran into his back. “Ow. Why can’t you just admit the truth? You’re in love with Monica Campbell.”
Just hearing her name caused his chest to swell, his pulse to race. Could it be? What else would explain this ennui, this feeling of utter, dismal hopelessness?
Bloody fucking hell. Yes. That’s what this horrible, gut-churning feeling he carried around day and night was about—love. He’d never felt this way before, tied up in knots and unable to think about anything except her. He’d been too foolish to recognize it.
The poets and songwriters had their heads firmly up their asses. There was nothing glorious or transformative about this feeling. It was anguish, pure and simple. “I’m in love.”
“I know.” Jules walked around him and parked in his path. “You get this dopey expression every time I mention her, and the rest of the time, you’re quite stroppy.”
Of course he was stroppy. He hadn’t been with Monica in almost two weeks. And it wasn’t just the sex, it was the companionship and hearing details about her day. Holding her in his arms at night. “I’m in love. God, this is wretched.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“It does, actually. She wants nothing to do with me.” He moved around her and walked into the formally appointed office. He threw the folder on the mahogany desk. When he pivoted, Jules stood right in front of him, gazing up at him with eyes coated in purple eye shadow. “Leave me alone, brat. I can’t take it today.”
“Why did she break it off with you? Were you mean to her?”
“No, I wasn’t mean.” He’d begged her to stay. Memories of their last conversation haunted him. Cal had insisted he couldn’t promise forever. He rubbed his forehead. Forever with Monica Campbell. That sounded like nirvana, but it was impossible.
She had a job—she couldn’t just pack up and leave whenever she wanted. She hates that job. Even so, he couldn’t expect her to traipse after him. And Cal had been a complete fool to think a long-distance relationship between them could work. How could he hie off to Caracas and leave her behind? The very idea was ridiculous.
Pocketing his hands, he gazed down at Jules. “I don’t have anything to offer her. I don’t have a regular job or a proper home or anything resembling stability.”