Текст книги "His Kind of Trouble"
Автор книги: Terri L. Austin
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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
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Copyright © 2015 by Terri L. Austin
Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover designed by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover image by Shirley Green
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
A Sneak Peek at His to Keep
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To Gretchen Jones, Czarina of All Knowledge. Thanks for being so patient with all my car questions. You are awesome in every way.
Chapter 1
Monica Campbell eyed the refreshment table, ignoring the appetizers and zeroing in on the champagne. “Why ruin a perfectly good Saturday night with a wedding?”
Evan Landers flicked a piece of lint off his green-and-black tartan jacket. “This isn’t the way I want to spend the evening either, and I’m not even related to the groom.”
“Don’t remind me.” Monica uncrossed her arms. “Okay, I’m going in for another glass. Keep a lookout for Allie.” Monica’s sister had already pulled her aside once and told her to slow down. Not happening. Even Allie’s disapproval couldn’t keep Monica away from the booze. It was the only thing this party had going for it.
Not party. Wedding.
So her dad was getting married. Great. Monica was happy for him. Really. He was moving on, and good for him. That’s what people did, right? They moved on, got remarried, started over. Totally natural. But the cloying smell of all these flowers reminded Monica of that hot, cloudless day when they’d buried her mom. Patricia Campbell had loved gardenias. Her casket had been covered with them. You’d think he would have remembered that.
Yeah—definitely time for another drink.
Stepping forward, Monica threw a smile at the cute waiter manning the table and trailed one hand across her bare shoulder. “How are you tonight?”
His gaze dipped to her cleavage. She showed quite a bit of it. Allie had bitched about that too. Along with the color of her dress. What was so terrible about wearing red to a wedding? It was a joyous occasion. That’s why they were all here—the bride’s small family, Monica’s tribe—to celebrate her dad’s new life.
“Good,” he said. “I’m very good.” He leaned forward and stage-whispered, “Technically, I’m only supposed to serve you sparkling cider.”
Ugh, Allie. Monica might have been a few months shy of legal, but since when had that ever stopped her? “I hate getting technical. Don’t you?”
After glancing over each shoulder, he reluctantly nodded. “Go ahead,” he said. “I won’t tell.”
Monica plucked up two glasses. “Thank you. You’re sweet.” As he blushed at her words, she spun around and did a quick scan of the room. Filled with bright, delicate flowers and dripping in candlelight, the glass-walled conservatory reeked of romance. A perfect setting for a perfect couple. Yep. Happy, happy.
Monica tipped back her head and chugged the expensive champagne as if it were tap water. She ignored the burst of fizzy bubbles that tickled her tongue. Barely tasted the dry, cool flavor. She needed to get her buzz on—ASAP.
“Easy there, slugger. This isn’t a kegger,” Evan said.
“God, I wish it were.” Monica set down the empty flute and stood shoulder to shoulder with him. He’d come as her “acceptable date,” per Allie’s instructions. Evan lacked a criminal record and attended college, although attended might be a liberal use of the term. He deserved a best-friend award for suffering through this with her.
Monica had met most of Allie’s requirements for this event. Appropriate date? Check. Mandatory attendance? Check. Stone-cold sober? Not for long.
Allie had commandeered Monica’s day from the time she’d woken up this morning until now: breakfast with the bride and her family, mani-pedis, hair and makeup, pictures. Monica had reached her snapping point. She just wanted out of here.
She missed her mom all the time, but today that grief was a persistent ache. It sat in the middle of her chest—a hot, painful burn that never let up, not for one minute.
This time, Monica didn’t bother to look around before she drained the champagne. If Allie didn’t like it, tough shit.
“How long do we have to stay?” she asked.
Evan patted her arm. “I’m not sitting through all this without getting a piece of cake.”
“I’ll buy you a cake. You can eat the whole damn thing.”
“Come on, Monnie. It’s one day. You’re tough, suck it up.”
She might be tough, but she was restless and unhappy, and oh shit—
“Uh-oh,” Evan whispered. “Incoming.”
Allie Campbell Blake headed toward them, her long white-blond hair flying outward with each step. At five months’ pregnant, Monica’s sister had never looked better. The bright blue dress she wore matched the color of her eyes. A fake smile she’d perfected over the years graced her lips. That smile fooled most people. Not Monica.
“Hey, Evan, do you mind if I speak to Monica for a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
He turned to leave, but Monica snagged his arm and refused to let go. “He can stay.”
Allie’s smile grew brighter. That always spelled trouble. “I thought we talked about the champagne.”
Monica raised her brows and attempted a look of innocence. “I’ve been drinking sparkling cider.”
Evan nodded. “Yep. I can vouch.”
“See?”
Allie stared at Monica until she nearly squirmed. “Okay. I won’t nag you anymore.” Right. “But this is Dad and Karen’s special night, Mon. Please don’t ruin it.” Then she walked off to greet the officiant.
“Thanks, Ev.” Monica gave his forearm a quick squeeze. “Do me one more favor? Keep her away from me.”
“I’ll do my best. But you could at least make an attempt at being subtle.”
“I don’t do subtle.”
He laughed. “No kidding.”
After a few minutes, Monica began to feel it—that nice little sensation starting at the base of her neck, the one that numbed her brain. She welcomed it. One more glass, and she just might make it. But before she could reach for it, Evan nudged her arm.
“And I thought you were underdressed. I think that guy stumbled into the wrong place.”
Monica followed Evan’s gaze. Whoa. Her restlessness disappeared, blown away like dust in a windstorm, and in its place stood the best diversion possible—a smoking-hot bad boy.
Monica may have been inappropriately dressed, but he took the jackpot. Long brown hair brushed his jawline. His leather jacket appeared battered, worn at the cuffs and rubbed bare at the elbows. His faded jeans fit him just right, showcasing his long legs. On his feet—black motorcycle boots. Whoever he was, he’d be right at home in a biker bar, but he looked completely out of place among the well-behaved guests.
“Who is he?” Evan asked.
What does it matter? This night had just taken a turn for the better. Her body responded to him. Attraction tugged at her, pulling her toward him. Straightening her shoulders, Monica started across the room, intent on finding out more.
Before she could take another step, the officiant walked to the front of the room, and the string quartet began the opening strains of “Pachelbel’s Canon.” Damn. That was her cue. Time to find a seat.
Evan grabbed her wrist and drew her back to him. “Come on,” he whispered. “The wedding’s going to start.”
For the next thirty minutes, while her dad and Karen exchanged vows, Monica’s eyes kept straying toward her mystery man. He sat across the aisle, two rows back. She tried to take Evan’s advice and do subtle, angling her chin and glancing at him from the corner of her eye. Finally she gave up on subtle. Twisting her head, she openly studied him.
She tried to guess his age—late twenties maybe? Excessively badass, that much was obvious. Who strutted into a wedding like that, completely at ease with himself, unapologetic? Monica could respect that kind of fuck you attitude.
Every time he moved, that leather jacket creaked, just a little bit. Her eyes slid back to him once more. He had a strong profile—straight nose, square jaw. As if he felt her staring, he turned his head and looked her right in the eye.
And then he gave her an uneven grin.
Completely charmed, she smiled back. Monica wanted to talk to him, find out his story. Who are you kidding, Campbell? You want to fuck him. Absolutely. But exchanging a few words first wouldn’t hurt.
She tapped her fingers against her bare thigh. This ceremony couldn’t end fast enough. It just dragged on and on—rings, candle lighting, pouring sand into a glass jar for some reason. All the cheesy, clichéd symbols. Was it really that easy for him to forget her mom? Commit to another woman?
Whatever. Maybe that guy would give her a ride on his bike. Then she could give him a ride back at her apartment. That seemed fair.
The next time she glanced at him, he’d slipped his jacket off. Nice arms—tanned, muscular. He threw her a broad wink, and it earned him another smile. God, he was hot. Flirty. Cocky. Just her type.
When Evan lightly slapped her arm, Monica returned her attention to the front of the room. Her dad and Karen kissed. Then, hand in hand, they gazed at each other and walked up the aisle, stopping to greet people along the way. When they reached the row where Monica sat, her dad leaned down and pecked her cheek.
“Congratulations, Daddy.” It almost physically hurt to say the words.
Yet, he did look happy. Content. One chapter closed and another one opened. That was life.
The sadness that pierced Monica’s chest burned a little hotter. She tried to ignore it.
Once her dad and Karen left the room, Allie took front and center. “Just a few announcements.” Monica suppressed a groan. Like a flight attendant, Allie gave directions, complete with hand gestures, about the buffet dinner in the dining room.
Monica looked back once more. This time, the stranger was waiting for her. He lowered his head a notch, and his eyes traced over her face. No smile. Just heat.
Monica stood, her gaze unwavering. They simply stared at each other, ignoring everyone else. People began filing out of the conservatory. Chatter filled the air, and the quartet played a chipper tune. Hardly any of it registered.
Evan leaned down and spoke in her ear. “Are you coming?”
“You go on,” Monica said, keeping her eye on the prize. “I’ll catch up later.”
“Okay, but whatever you do, don’t get caught.” He sidled past her and left the room.
Soon, everyone cleared out, even the musicians, until only the two of them remained. Monica and this stranger. He kept his eyes locked on hers as he moved forward. Every step brought him closer. Finally, he stopped in front of her, the tip of his boot resting against the toe of her stiletto. He stared down at her with the greenest eyes. They danced over her, lighting on every part of her, eating her up. Monica breathed it in, loving the attention.
“And who are you, then?” he asked. He had a British accent. A bad boy Brit. Too perfect.
“I’m the daughter of the groom. Monica Campbell.” She held out her hand.
“Cal Hughes. I believe your sister married my cousin, Trevor.” He took her hand and didn’t let go. His skin felt hot against hers. “Felicitations on the wedding and all that.” His deep voice made her nipples tighten. His gaze kept darting from her face to the tops of her breasts.
“Thanks. You have very interesting taste in wedding attire.”
He glanced down at his clothes. “Sorry about that. I rode into town this afternoon. Didn’t think to pack a suit.”
“Rode? As in motorcycle?”
“Yeah.”
Ha, she knew it.
When Cal let go of her, she missed the contact. Wetting her lips, she watched as he dropped his jacket in a chair. A hint of ink peeked from under the sleeve of his black T-shirt. Tattoos made her weak. Pretty much everything about this guy checked all of her boxes. He even smelled good. Woodsy and fresh.
“Is Cal short for something?”
He took one step closer, so her breasts brushed his chest. Now she had to lean her head all the way back to look up at him.
“It stands for Calum.”
“A British name, huh?” She swung her head so that a curl bounced off her shoulder. “Do you live in Britain?”
“Some of the time. And what do you do, Monica?” The way he said her name made her skin heat up. She wanted to hear him say it again. Monica could use a good distraction tonight, and Cal Hughes was the man to give it to her. Hopefully, he’d give it to her twice.
“I’m a student.” Using one finger, she lifted the edge of his right sleeve.
“Like ink, do you?”
Still feeling the effects of the champagne, she gazed up at him, a smile hovering over her lips. “I love ink.” A Celtic knot. She fingered the bottom edge of the design.
“You’re a student at university?”
She dropped her hand and nodded, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth. He watched it hungrily. “I haven’t decided on a major yet. Have any advice?”
“No, school was never my strong suit. So what do you do when you’re not studying?”
“I like to dance. Club dancing, for fun. Not pole dancing, for profit. Just so you know.”
Cal threw out a surprised laugh. “You’re a bit of a wild card, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes.” His wide shoulders blocked out the fountain. The flickering candles cast a shadow across the left side of his face, making him appear even more mysterious. He represented all of her fantasies rolled into one tasty package.
“I suppose we should join the others,” he said.
Monica didn’t want this moment to end. “I’m not interested in joining the others.”
He lifted his hand and looped a strand of her hair around his finger. “What are you interested in?”
“Do you want a list?”
“Yes, I do. We’ll fit in as many as we can.”
“We could start with Trevor’s garden. Have you seen it?”
“No, but it sounds as though I should.” He unwound her hair and ran his finger down the side of her throat. His whisper-light touch made her tingle. “If you’d show it to me, I’d be really grateful.” He grinned again, and that smile was her undoing.
Monica pointed to the garden door, tucked in the corner behind a potted orange tree. Cal shrugged his jacket on and followed her outside.
The night was cool. The new moon didn’t offer much light, and only a few stars dotted the sky. The vast garden wasn’t dark though. Tiny white lights hung from tree branches and lit the pathway.
Cal stopped walking and looked around. “This is exactly like my grandfather’s garden. Except for the grotto.”
“That’s a Vegas thing.” Monica followed the pathway past the rosebushes. From here, she could see into the dining room. Two dozen people sat at the long table. They could probably see her too, if they were paying attention.
Cal wrapped his hand around her waist. “Want to go back inside?”
“Not at all.” She turned to him and splayed her hands across his chest. The knit material felt soft, like it had been washed a thousand times. Monica stood on her toes and ran her tongue along his jawline. “You know, I’ve never been kissed in a garden.”
“Haven’t you? What a terrible shame. We should fix that.” Cal leaned down, but instead of kissing her, he gently bit down on the place where her neck and shoulder met.
Monica grabbed a handful of his hair. “I like that.”
Cal lifted his head and nodded toward the house. “Is there somewhere a little less out in the open?”
Being out in the open made it that much more exciting, as far as Monica was concerned. But if he needed privacy, she’d go along. As she led him toward the pond, she cast one last glance at the house, glad she wasn’t stuck inside. The fresh air felt good. The flowers in the garden smelled fragrant and sweet, rather than overpowering. And she could be herself out here, without everyone watching over her and disapproving.
Once the path ended, Monica walked across the thick grass to the back wall. The garden lights didn’t extend this far. It was dark. Private, like he wanted.
She swung around. “What do you—”
Cal didn’t let her finish. Cupping her jaw with his free hand, he bent down and kissed her.
As his mouth moved over hers, Monica felt it clear down to her toes. They curled inside her shoes. Her belly fluttered and her knees grew weak. And it wasn’t the champagne. Cal Hughes took her breath away.
He let go of her hand in order to cup her breast. Monica’s nipple strained against the rasp of his thumbnail. Her panties grew damp and her pussy clenched. Fuck being on her best behavior. She needed this rush of desire, this instant attraction. She felt so alive right now.
Parting his jacket, she ran her hands up his torso. Solid. Muscular, but lean.
Then his hand tugged on her bodice and palmed her bare breast. The cool air picked up a curl, and it tickled her cheek.
Monica tore her mouth away from his. “You don’t have to be so gentle.”
Cal’s grip on her breast tightened, and his lips slipped down the column of her neck, taking little bites while he grazed her nipple with his thumb.
She reached for his dick, rubbing her fingers along the edge of his fly, getting a feel for it. “Yes,” he murmured against her neck, “more of that.” Then he shoved his hips against her hand. He grew under her touch. Hard and long—Monica couldn’t wait to see it. Maybe taste it.
“Mon?” Allie. “What the hell are you doing?”
Monica peeked over Cal’s shoulder. Standing at the edge of the path, Al stared at them. With a hand at her belly, she shook her head. “Oh, Monica.”
“Shit,” she whispered, pushing out of Cal’s arms. She quickly shoved herself back into her dress.
Cal straightened. He gazed down at her, looking dazed, and ran a hand along his jaw. “Damn.”
Monica stepped around him. “I…we just needed some air.”
“Get in the house.” Allie used a soft tone, one that spoke of disappointment rather than anger. Monica could handle anger, fight against it. But this… Pack your bags, Campbell. There’s an extended guilt trip in your future. “Stop by the powder room and get yourself together. Your hair’s a mess.”
“I don’t want to go back inside, Al.” Cal stood next to her, silent. Waiting. She could still ride away with him, lose herself until tomorrow.
Allie dropped her hand. “Dad won’t cut the cake until you’re there. Please do this for him.”
As upset as she was, Monica didn’t want to ruin his perfect day. She took another peek up at Calum Hughes. “Maybe next time, huh?”
“Definitely.” Cal bent down and gave her one last, hard kiss.
Then Monica ran toward the house without looking back.
Chapter 2
Five years later…
Monica Campbell’s carefully planned schedule was shot to hell. Not just her schedule—her entire morning. She needed a do-over. If only those worked after the third grade, she’d be golden, because this day was shaping up to be a real pisser.
She’d woken up at six, bleary-eyed and in desperate need of coffee, but her machine had refused to give up the dark roast. Then her sister, Allie, had texted to switch the location of their eight o’clock meeting. Now instead of a ten-minute drive to the office, Monica had to hightail it from Vegas to Henderson. Hastening her routine, she’d sped to the nearest coffee shop and stood in line with all the other caffeine addicts in the throes of withdrawal—thirty-two minutes wasted—before heading straight into rush hour.
Allie had given no explanation for the change in locale, no apology. But since she was the boss, it was her call. And she never let Monica forget it.
One thing Monica resented above all else was having someone dick with her schedule. And today the universe had her in its crosshairs. Roll with the punches. Go with the flow. People uttered the trite phrases as if they were actual philosophies. But if time didn’t mean anything, why had clocks been invented? Yeah. Argue that one, slackers.
As the coordinator for the cancer foundation named in honor of her mother, Monica kept busy; her job was one big blur of back-to-back meetings. Allie’s little hitch threw everything into chaos. So as she sat behind the wheel in bumper-to-bumper traffic, Monica sipped her sugary black coffee, called the office to reschedule three appointments, and left detailed messages for two separate committee chairs.
By the time she pulled through the gates of Allie’s sprawling mansion, Monica had regained a small measure of control. She’d still have to scramble to fit in all of her appointments, but if she could keep Allie on point, Monica might finish everything on her to-do list and make it out of the office before midnight.
After parking in the circular drive, Monica walked at a brisk clip to the side of the house, her mind spinning in ten different directions. But when she rounded the corner and neared the freestanding garage, her feet stopped moving altogether.
“Bloody fucking hell.”
Monica didn’t bat an eye at the crude words. It wasn’t the masculine British accent that brought her to a standstill, either. No, it had everything to do with that deep, raspy voice. It sounded very familiar, but this man’s timbre was lower, much rougher than the one she remembered.
He stood bent beneath the hood of an ancient Mustang. The light gray Bondo filler spread along the car’s body was as faded as his jeans—so faded they’d turned white in the well-worn creases and at the seams. The denim wasn’t artificially distressed. It was the real deal.
Sounds of metal clanging against metal emanated from the engine where the stranger worked. “Fuck,” he muttered.
Monica didn’t know much about British accents, but she recognized a posh one when she heard it. And despite the rumbly tenor and foul words, his accent was as high-end as it got.
When he retreated one step and rose to his full height—well over six feet—Monica’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. His torso was bare, without an annoying shirt to mar the smooth expanse of deeply burnished skin.
She licked her dry lips and adjusted the collar of her blouse. As she continued to gawk, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, causing the muscles of his back to contract ever so slightly. Monica swallowed as she took in the line of his broad shoulders. When he raised a hand to brush the hair off his forehead, powerful muscles bunched and rippled in a graceful, fluid motion. Monica blinked slowly, practically hypnotized. Oh crap, he had a tattoo. Starting at the cap of his right shoulder and ending on his bicep, a set of interconnecting Celtic knots and swirls decorated his skin. Wait. She knew that tattoo.
Calum Hughes was back in town.
Fan-fucking-tastic. Monica’s disastrous day just took a nosedive.
She inhaled deeply in an effort to slow her racing pulse, and reminded herself she was immune to bad boys now. Well, not immune so much as on the wagon. Though after Cal, it had taken Monica awhile to her get her shit together, she had been a bad boy–free zone for four years. Four very long years. She only went for nice men now. Respectable men. Men with real jobs and life goals. Like her ex, Ryan.
That reminder helped dispel the lusty fog that clouded her mind. With firm resolve, Monica pulled herself together, straightened her spine, then averted her gaze, forcing her feet to move.
She resumed walking to the house, but he must have heard the click-clack of her heels this time, because he spun around quickly. Determined not to be diverted again, Monica kept moving. But she couldn’t help giving him one last side-eyed glance.
“Good morning,” he said.
Now that he’d spotted her, Monica couldn’t just ignore him. Adjusting her sunglasses, she stopped and turned to face him fully.
Monica may not have immediately recognized Cal’s back, but she’d know that face anywhere. With a stubbled jaw and angular features, he was more arresting than handsome. Shallow grooves formed brackets around his mouth, which tilted noticeably higher on the left side when he smiled. Deep, pleated lines framed those spring-green eyes. Time had only made him more attractive.
No, not attractive. That was too benign a word. He had a strong, masculine presence, an attitude of casual self-assurance mixed with sex appeal that would entice any woman with a pulse. Monica definitely had a pulse, and hers was approaching the red zone.
She remained silent for a moment, waiting to see if he would recognize her. And as she waited, her gaze traced downward. While his biceps weren’t bodybuilder huge, they were well defined. He had the look of someone who developed them in real life, not by pumping iron in a gym. His solid, carved abs stood out in relief, the tanned skin molding over them, contouring the hollows between each distinct muscle. God save the Queen, it was getting hot out here.
A trickle of sweat slid from the back of her hairline, working its way down her neck and disappearing beneath the collar of her white blouse. Immune, the sane part of her brain protested.
“My God, it’s you.” He strode forward, tight jeans riding low on his hips, pulling at his thighs with each step, and stopped just a foot away. He smelled of motor oil and sunshine. That shouldn’t be such an intriguing combination. “Monica Campbell.” The way he whispered her name sent a quiver shooting through her belly.
Now he stared at her, his body motionless—then without warning, he reached out and whisked off her sunglasses in a lightning-fast move. His gaze held hers, searching—for what she couldn’t say—but his grin kicked up a notch. “I wondered if I’d remembered correctly. If your eyes were really that blue. They are. Your hair’s different though, shorter. As I recall, it used to be curly.” With his free hand, he reached out and rubbed a strand between his fingers. “Still soft,” he rumbled low in his chest.
Monica forgot to inhale for a few seconds. Okay, so he still remembered her. It didn’t mean anything, not really, not to a man like him—a man who probably had sex as regularly as he drank beer: each night, after a full day of hammering on a dilapidated engine. Monica was probably just a notch he couldn’t add to his undoubtedly high pussy count, and that made her stand out. Still, the fact that he hadn’t forgotten that kiss flooded her with relief. His tongue stroking hers, his hand hot on her breast, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure…she’d never forget it. That night in the garden, the smell of roses crossed with Cal’s woodsy scent—epic.
Cal’s gaze flowed over her again, but slower this time, like an intimate stroke up and down her body. He took in everything, from her plain white blouse to her black jacket and slacks, all the way down to the sensible pumps on her feet. “Who died?” he asked.
“What?”
“You look as if you’re in mourning.” As he dropped her hair, he dipped his chin, nodding over the length of her. “Are you going to a funeral?”
Funeral? This was a perfectly acceptable pantsuit—black, classic cut. From Nordstrom. The sale rack, but so what? “No one died. I’m a professional. I wear clothes that reflect that.” She jerked the sunglasses out of his hand and settled them back on her nose. She felt less exposed with the dark lenses covering half her face.
“A professional what?”
Monica wasn’t going defend her life choices to Calum Hughes. She’d kissed him five years ago, and it was never going to happen again. Time to move on. She had a to-do list two miles long. Her schedule was all fucked up. Right. She’d actually forgotten about it for a moment. The sight of Cal had scrambled her brain. “I need to go, or I’m going to be late for my meeting.” There. That sounded in command and unaffected. Of course, she clutched her computer bag to her stomach like it was a shield. Monica tried to subtly loosen her grip.
Cal’s laugh was gruff, jagged. The sound made her nipples strain against the lace cups of her bra. She ignored them, glad her suit jacket concealed her breasts so thoroughly.
“The Monica I met a few years back wouldn’t give a toss about a meeting. You have grown up, then.”
So had he. Five years ago, he’d still retained a hint of boyishness, a softness in his face, a twinkle in his eyes. But now his face was leaner, his cheekbones sharper. And his eyes were a bit more wary. “It happens to the best of us,” she said. “I take it that’s your car?”
“Yeah, just bought it.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you think? It’s not much to look at right now, I’ll grant you, but it has potential.”
One of the many losers Monica had dated over the years had owned a Mustang. Dustin Something. According to him, Mustangs were money pits. For every one problem he’d fix, three more popped up. Since he talked endlessly about it, she recalled more about the car than the guy who drove it—air-cooled engines and drippy cowl vents and lots of rust. “If you say so.”
He glanced back at her, eyes zeroing in on her lips. “I’m good at spotting a diamond in the rough.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.” She forced herself to glance away. The fine sheen of sweat coating his muscle-carved chest was starting to make Monica a little light-headed. She couldn’t retreat to the house fast enough. If she didn’t go now, she’d be tempted to do something stupid, like trace her fingers across Cal’s tattoo, then follow it up with her tongue. “Good to see you again.”
She turned on her heel and took one step before Cal’s big, callused hand snagged hers, pulling her closer to his side. She looked down, noticed how large and tanned it was in comparison to hers. His nails were super short and clean, despite the fact that he’d been toying with an engine only moments ago.
