* * *
As Monica parked in front of Cal’s place, a valet appeared out of nowhere. The service here was impressive. She’d always wanted a peek inside one of the villas, and she’d probably never have another chance.
Cal placed his hand on her lower back, guiding her up the walk. “I worked up an appetite, how about you?”
“Dinner,” Monica said. “That’s all I’m agreeing to.” For now. She just wanted to state it for the record, but her delivery was weak. Even Monica wasn’t buying her flimsy denials. She and Cal would be having sex again before the night was over. After hearing his ideas on tasting versus sampling, she couldn’t think about anything else.
“If you say so.” His agreeable tone said he wasn’t taking her seriously either. She hadn’t really given him a reason to. Every time they were together, she meant to say no, but her legs fell open instead.
Cal unlocked the door and nudged her inside. Monica walked past the threshold and stood in the foyer, taking in the detailed pattern on the tiled floor, the marbled walls, the modern crystal chandelier that looked like dandelion seeds. “This is gorgeous.”
“It’s not on par with Trevor’s place, but it’ll do in a pinch, eh?” He grinned down at her.
“If one doesn’t mind slumming,” she joked. Monica fought against reaching up and touching the left corner of his mouth. That crooked smile got her.
Cal relieved her of her purse and bag, setting them next to the front door. Then he took her hand. “Come on. Food’s outside.” He sped through the living room, tugging her behind him.
“Wait.” Monica dragged her feet. Her quick glance around the living room gave her an overall impression of warm walls and sumptuous furniture—a mixture of old-world dark wood and modern design. “I want to see it all.”
“Later. I’ll show you everything, I promise.” He pulled her to the French doors.
“Do you always keep your promises, Calum Hughes?”
He stopped then and looked over his shoulder. She’d only been joking, but his eyes were somber. “Yes. Always. Don’t you?”
Monica hadn’t kept the promise she’d made to herself, the one about steering clear of good-time guys with sex on the brain. And she hadn’t kept the promise to her mom, either. Monica didn’t plan on following her heart anytime soon. “No, I don’t always keep my promises.”
Cal studied her for a long moment. When he smiled, the left side of his mouth stayed on an even keel with the right. “What a pity. Now, come along.”
Cal led her outside and onto the terrace. This wasn’t Trevor’s winding English garden, but it was beautiful. Hanging flowers and topiary bushes dotted the perimeter of the pool, where tendrils of steam rose into the night sky. Lit from within, the bright blue water cast shimmers that danced along the tan French pavers at her feet. Outdoor heaters flanked either side of the candlelit table set for two, and a buffet cart stood to one side.
Still holding Cal’s hand, Monica looked around. “This is amazing.”
“Reminds me of another garden. Another night,” Cal said.
She turned to him. “What if Allie hadn’t interrupted us that night? Would you have been so eager to see me again, or would you have avoided me like the flu?”
“After what we did an hour ago, how can you ask me that question?” With his back to the low light, Monica found it impossible to read his expression.
Five years ago, Cal had been a dangerous bad boy looking for an easy lay. “I think if we’d fucked that night, you wouldn’t remember my name.”
He squeezed her hand. “I’m not the same man I was five years ago, but I’d have remembered you, Monica Campbell. You’re unforgettable.” With his free hand, he stroked her cheek and bent his head. His lips stopped inches from hers, but he paused. “Would you have forgotten me?”
“Yes.”
“Liar,” he said on a breath. He rained tiny kisses over her lips, her chin.
“How have you changed?” she whispered.
Cal straightened. “I’m older, wiser. More devastatingly handsome than ever before.”
Monica sensed a depth to him that he hadn’t possessed five years ago. Maybe it had happened over the last year with Babcock’s death. Losing a loved one could do that to a person. When her mother died, it had changed Monica. The grief and loss made her more careless than ever.
Monica shook off the guilt and sadness that crept in every time she thought about her mom. Allie’s accusation yesterday had hit the mark. She didn’t like talking about her mom, or thinking about the times they’d shared. It was just too damn painful. Monica decided to embrace this night with Cal. Her past, the present—it would all be waiting for her tomorrow.
He let go of her hand and pointed with his chin to the food cart. “Go see what treats I’ve got for you.”
She opened one chafing dish, then laughed. “Fried chicken?”
“You Americans seem to love it. After all, you’ve put that military colonel in charge of it.”
“Funny.” She moved on to the next dish. “Mashed potatoes.” The next were filled with cornbread and green beans and some kind of casserole. “Cal, do you have Vegas confused with the Deep South?”
He laughed. “No, but I told the chef to make something all Americans love to eat.” He paused. “We can send it back. We can order takeaway if you like, or go to a restaurant at the casino.”
He pulled his phone from his front pocket, but Monica grabbed his sleeve. “This is wonderful. I was only kidding.”
He seemed unsure of himself for a split second, then the old taunting grin returned. “We could hop a jet and go anywhere you want. You know how we trust-fund knobs are, any whim fulfilled.”
“Cal.” The atmosphere had changed. This had been a sweet gesture on his part, and Monica wasn’t sure what she’d said or done, but the self-deprecating humor had a hint of bitterness to it. Cal always poked fun at himself, in his own way. His arrogant statements weren’t meant to be taken seriously. But this jab, this one was real. She wasn’t sure how to fix it, so she glossed over it. “Please tell me there’s chocolate?”
Cal’s shoulders relaxed slightly. The tension that filled the air a moment ago disappeared. “Of course there is. Do I look like a fool? Wait, don’t answer that.” He moved behind her, slid his arms around her waist, and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Really, if you want something else—”
“This is like a fantasy. A picnic in the moonlight.” She turned and gave him a small reassuring kiss. Cal let her go and stepped back.
Monica handed him a plate and filled hers with some of everything, along with a chicken leg. “When we were little, Brynn and I used to fight over the chicken legs. I always wanted both, but my mother made us share.”
“What was she like, your mother?”
“Motherly.”
As Monica sat down, Cal took a seat across from her. Shaking out his napkin, he raised one brow. “We can talk about something else. There’s always the weather. Or sports. How do you like Chelsea’s chances this year?”
“Is that a soccer team or something?” Monica picked up her fork and took a bite of creamy mashed potatoes. Mmm, buttery. “This is delicious.”
Cal tutted. “Football, not soccer. You Americans. Do you still miss her?”
Although the day had been warm again, the evening air started to cool down. Even with the portable heaters, Monica shivered. “Every day. But I don’t want to talk about my mom any more than you want to talk about Babcock. It hurts.”
His gaze locked on hers. “Agreed.” He poured them each a glass of wine.
“What’s the best French wine you’ve ever tasted?” she asked.
“To be honest, I have a hard time telling a good cabernet from a bottle of plonk. I’m more of a lager man. I’d rather go to Stuttgart for Oktoberfest than French wine country, although it’s beautiful there.” Cal sat back, his eyes skimming over her.
Monica felt self-conscious when Cal watched her eat the chicken leg as daintily as she could manage. Covering her mouth with a napkin, she laughed. “Stop staring at me. You’re making me nervous.”