Текст книги "His Kind of Trouble"

Автор книги: Terri L. Austin

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Shutting the door, Cal grinned. As of this morning, he felt more alive, more engaged than he had in months. He actually looked forward to something: teasing the bloody hell out of Monica Campbell.

Seducing her might be more difficult than he’d first thought. And getting her to drop that straitlaced image would be a challenge. But he was up to it. There was something truly horrifying about a naughty girl turned saint. It offended his delicate sensibilities.

Cal pushed off the door and strode from the foyer into a hallway, intent on finding Trevor. Turning a corner, he almost ran headlong into Allie. “Whoops,” he said, reaching out to steady her shoulders. “Sorry about that.”

She smiled. “No problem. How are you?”

“Very well. You’re looking beautiful. Pink suits you.”

“Thanks. I was just about to come and get you, see if you wanted a cup of coffee.” She led the way to the drawing room, where Grecian busts and porcelain bowls covered almost every surface. “You know you don’t have to stay in a hotel. You’re welcome here. Don’t let Trevor’s bark fool you. He’s a softy.” She sat on one of the sofas and poured coffee from a silver pot.

He could call Trevor many things, most of them less than complimentary, but softy wasn’t among them. “Thank you, Allison.” He took the delicate china cup in one hand and sat across from her. “I’m perfectly happy in the villa.” He rubbed his earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. “I chatted with your sister outside just now. She seemed…” He deliberately left the conversational door open, hoping Allie would walk through it. He wanted to know more about Monica. Was she seeing someone? Surely not, or she would have used it as an excuse not to have dinner with him.

“She seemed what?” Allie asked.

Well, so much for that ploy. “Grown-up, very professional.” Really, Cal? That’s the best you could come up with? But what the hell was he supposed to say? Your sister still looks shagirific, Allie. I do hope she’ll allow me to fuck her until her knees wobble this time. Compared with that, professional didn’t seem half-bad.

Allie nodded. “She is. Monica takes her job very seriously.”

“What is her job, exactly? Funeral director? School marm?”

Allie’s pale brows rose a fraction. “She works for the foundation.”

“What foundation would that be?”

The smile slowly faded from her lips. “Pix didn’t mention it?”

“Of course she did. I just forgot. Very important work, foundations.”

Allie broke out laughing. “You have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, do you?”

He grinned. “Guilty.”

“We run a breast cancer foundation, and Monica’s our coordinator. She spends a lot of time looking over grants and helping organize fund-raisers. She’s come a long way.”

How very fucking dreary that sounded. Sexy Monica had turned into a glorified office drone? He refused to believe it. “What do you mean she’s come a long way? From where?”

With her eyes cast downward, Allie used her thumb to stroke the saucer’s edge. “It took Monica a while to figure things out, but she’s on a really good path now.” Her gaze lifted to meet his. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Not really. Explain it to me.” Allie was warning him to stay away from Monica, clearly. But he wasn’t going to be put off that easily. When Cal wanted something badly enough, he became rather persistent. It once took him two years to track down all the original parts for a ’56 Arnolt-Bristol Roadster, but in the end, he got what he wanted. And he found himself very much wanting Monica Campbell, and not just sexually. He needed to know what made her tick.

“Monica used to have a wild streak,” Allie said. “In the past few years, she’s calmed down. She’s working hard, making good choices. I know the two of you had a romantic moment the last time you met, but I’m asking you to leave her alone, Cal. I don’t think you’re right for each other.”

“Right for each other?” he repeated. What the hell was she on about? Had he suddenly wandered into a Jane Austen novel? Cal wasn’t some naff off the street—he was Trevor’s cousin, for God’s sake. Cal naturally fancied Monica. Wanted to fuck her senseless, but he didn’t need Allie’s permission for that.

He set his cup and saucer on the table between them. “I appreciate your sisterly concern, but Monica’s a grown woman. Surely she can make her own decisions.”

When he’d seen Monica this morning, so dowdy and buttoned up to her eyeballs, he’d been gobsmacked. Yet Allison sat here like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and talked about good choices, as if her sister were a schoolgirl. Obviously Monica needed to break out of the cocoon she’d encased herself in. For whatever reason, she’d turned her life around so dramatically, she must be miserable. Tempting the proper Monica to embrace the fun-loving side of her nature sounded more marvelous with each passing minute.

Allie slowly nodded. “Of course she can make her own decisions. Look, I like you, Cal. You’re charming and handsome and seem like a decent guy. But I don’t want to see my sister get hurt.” Her baby-blue eyes turned serious. “So let this be a warning to your balls. I assume you like them attached to your body?”

Cal stood and thrust his hands into his pockets. “They’re quite happy where they are, thank you for inquiring.” He fought a sudden urge to cup his jewels in case she decided to make a dive for them. “Message received.” It didn’t change his plans about seducing Monica, but one always appreciated advance warning.

Cal tipped his head and, turning, made his way from the room. It wasn’t the first time a girl’s overprotective loved one had warned him off. Probably wouldn’t be the last. But Monica was a big girl who could take care of herself. He didn’t want to hurt her—he wanted to liberate her.

As Cal wandered through the house in search of Trevor, he glanced through the various displayed collections of antique whatnots their grandfather had accumulated over the years. Trevor was now the keeper of all this rubbish, and good luck to him. Everything from cigar boxes to Japanese swords to birds’ eggs. The old man had been the original eccentric.

Cal finally found Trevor’s office and, after giving a perfunctory knock, strolled in. “What are you up to, then?”

Trevor’s eyes flashed on Cal before returning to the computer screen. “It’s called work. You should try it sometime.”

“No thanks.” With a grin, Cal fell into the chair in front of Trevor’s massive desk. “Sounds painfully boring. By the way, your lovely wife just threatened my bollocks.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons. So when are you leaving town?”

“You’re the second person who’s asked me that in the last half hour. Why is everyone so anxious to get rid of me? I was made for Vegas.”

“Personally, I couldn’t care less what you do. I just wondered how long you planned on keeping that rusty shitpile in my garage.”

The Mustang. Cal had bought it on a whim. As the taxi had driven him around the city, he’d seen it parked in someone’s driveway, and made an offer. It needed a lot of work, but tinkering gave him something constructive to do. Kept his mind occupied, at any rate. “I could rent a place to house it if you’d like, and get it out of your hair.”

Trevor shot him a glance. “How was Australia? You don’t seem keen.”

Although Cal hadn’t clapped eyes on his cousin in years, Trevor had an uncanny way of seeing what no one else did. “Me, I’m brilliant. And Australia was sunny. It’s always sunny down under.”

“According to Pix, you were there for over a year. That’s unusual for you. And as soon as you get into town, you buy a car to work on, which suggests you plan on staying long enough to fix it. Did a girl finally figure you out and give you the heave-ho?”

Instead of getting defensive—his first instinct—Cal relaxed in his chair. “Since when do you dole out advice to the walking wounded? Has marriage turned you into an agony aunt? As for Australia—it’s loaded with fast cars, faster women, and a wicked surf.”

“Fine, I’ll stay out of your business. And no, you don’t have to rent a garage. You can work on it here. For some reason, your bollocks excluded, Allison likes you. And Mags would have my head if I kicked you out.”

“How is your mum, Trev? Still shacking up with your father?”

Trevor briefly closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Don’t get me started on those two. Now go. I need to work.” Turning his gaze to the center screen, Trevor dismissed him.

Cal left the office and walked outside, back to the car. He grabbed a wrench and ducked under the hood. The last thing he wanted to think about was Australia. So he thought about Monica instead, and all the ways he wanted her. She wouldn’t be a pushover—she’d proven that this morning. But Cal could be very persuasive. Monica Campbell would be in his bed sooner rather than later, if he had anything to say about it.

* * *

On her drive to work, Monica couldn’t get Calum Hughes out of her mind. Why did he have to show up now, when her resistance to inappropriate men was so low?

Irritated with herself, she pulled into a parking spot and slammed on the brakes. She had a million details to worry about with this gala coming up, and she didn’t have time to pine over that hot piece of British ass. She wasn’t going out with him either, although it had taken every bit of willpower she had to turn down his dinner invitation. Especially when he kept walking toward her slowly, each step deliberate, like a tiger stalking his next meal. Or when he’d lowered his face to hers. An inch closer, and she could have lifted her chin, spanned the distance between them, and tasted him. She could have seen for herself if his lips were as talented as she remembered. But she hadn’t.

Congratulations, Campbell. You showed a modicum of restraint. Do you want a gold star?

Monica grabbed her bags and strode into the building. Hopping on the elevator, she pulled out her phone and glanced at her revised schedule. A meeting with a sponsor, cost projections to go over with the accountant, a staff meeting later in the afternoon.

When she’d started as an intern at the foundation, Monica had done everything, from stuffing envelopes to brainstorming new ideas for fund-raisers. What she loved most was interacting with people—everyone from recipients to donors. After she’d earned her master’s in public administration two years ago, Allie had put her in charge of running the show. Well, in theory anyway. In reality, Allie kept a very tight rein on both Monica and the foundation. Now Monica spent her days not only pacifying her big sister, but six other board members as well.

Walking down the hall and into the suite, she found Stella Greene waiting for her. “Good, you’re here.” The office manager twisted the pink scarf knotted at her neck. “Things have been crazy this morning.”

“What happened?” Monica glanced around the open space at her ten employees. They all appeared busy, not harried.

Now in her fifties, Stella had spent the last thirty years working for some of the toughest people in Vegas—tourists. As a hotel concierge, her job had been to remain unflustered and make the guests happy, so seeing her have a mini-freakout gave Monica pause.

“The printers screwed up the date on the gala tickets, two donors called and asked to speak to you specifically, and Mr. Stanford is here. He’s been waiting in your office for over an hour.”

Ah, so that’s what caused the panic. Marcus Stanford was a pain in Monica’s ass, and her most difficult board member. He asked for ballsy favors, tried to co-opt the foundation’s staff for his own business purposes, and had a remarkable knack for showing up on hectic days. “What does he want?”

“No idea,” Stella said. “I’m sorry I let him into your office. He tends to steamroll right over me.”

“Don’t take it personally, he does that with everyone.” She moved past Stella and waved at Carmen Jimenez. The thirty-year-old mother of two was talking on the phone, but when she spied Monica, she placed her hand over the receiver. “The liquor company wants their name on the signage. Too tacky for a cancer event?”

Monica lifted one brow.

“Fine,” she said, “but they’re going to bitch about it.”

Jason West strolled up to her with a half-eaten doughnut in his hand. “We need a new server, because ours is shit. Should I call Allie? And I hid a doughnut for you in the sweetener box, but it’s blueberry. Stanford got the last chocolate.”

A tide of frustration rose inside Monica—not about the doughnut, although blueberry was her least favorite. As the foundation’s coordinator, Monica held the title, yet none of the power. Every decision needed to be filtered through Allie. Monica’s crappy morning had drained her of patience, and she was feeling a little rebellious. “Just get what you need, and I’ll authorize it.” She could defend herself at the next board meeting. And if Allie didn’t like it, too bad.

Jason toasted her with his Bavarian cream. “Excellent.”

“What about the misprinted tickets?” Stella asked.

“Tell the printer to do it again. And he’s paying for it. If he gives you grief, I’ll talk to him myself.”

“I’m on it.” Stella gave her scarf one last tug and hustled to her desk.

Immediate fires now doused, Monica made her way down the hall and slapped a smile on her face before opening her office door. But when she saw Marcus Stanford sitting in her chair with his dirty work boots propped up on her desk, it threatened to slip.

With graying hair and skin the color of red brick, he wasn’t unattractive, but he was arrogant and overbearing. His construction company was worth millions, and he had ties all over Vegas. He’d given a hefty donation in return for a board seat, but he hadn’t done a bit of work since. He also liked to throw his weight around, and today, he was throwing it in Monica’s direction.

“Mr. Stanford, how are you, sir? Can I get you some coffee? You take it black, right?”

“No thanks. Good memory, though.”

“Is there something I can do for you?” Extra gift bags for the wife, donors’ private phone numbers? He’d asked for that and more. Her answer was always the same: No, it’s against foundation rules.

“Of course there is, why else would I be sitting here? We’re getting ready to vote on next year’s budget, and I want you to open up the grants. Cast a wider net, so to speak.”

That was a surprisingly thoughtful request and coincided with her own goals—providing funds for impoverished countries. “I’ll consider it. The board would have to go along with any changes.”

Stanford lowered his feet to the floor and stood. “Count me in. My wife’s charity, Parents for a Healthy Tomorrow or Today or some such bullshit…anyway, they’ll fill out an application. Make sure they get a cut.”

She should have seen it coming. Monica really was off her game this morning. And she blamed Cal Hughes. His tight ass and uneven smile made her lose perspective.

Monica stared at Stanford, amazed at the size of his brass cojones, then simply shook her head. “You know I can’t do that—it’s a conflict of interest.” Besides, grant approval was an exacting process. Monica spent months scouring through hundreds, sometimes thousands of applications, carefully examining each possible charity. “Is your wife interested in cancer prevention? We’d love to have her help—”

“Nah, my wife’s just trying to get kids off the junk food.” He strutted to the door. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths I have to go to to sneak a burger.”

She swiveled her head to follow his movements. “Mr. Stanford, I’m sorry. I’m not going to award funds to your wife’s project.”

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Look, you seem like a good kid, but let’s face it, you got this job because you’re related to Trevor Blake’s wife. It keeps you occupied, and that’s great. But this is a tax write-off, and nothing more. Just give my wife a few million. I’ll consider it a personal favor.” He winked and left the office, shutting the door behind him.

Monica let out a shaky breath. True, she had gotten the job because she was Allie’s sister, but Monica had worked her ass off for the past two years to prove she could handle the responsibility, and yet everyone looked at her like she was Allie’s lapdog. And that didn’t sit well at all.

“What a fuckwad,” she said to the empty room.

Ultimately, the nepotism didn’t matter. Not if she continued to work hard and successfully tackled the demands of the job. Monica had made so many mistakes in the past, she needed this, needed to show Allie that she’d changed.

Monica swiped her palm across the desk blotter where Stanford’s big feet had left behind a clump of dirt. After booting up her laptop, she put her self-doubts and Calum Hughes from her mind. She had work to do.

Chapter 4

Monica plowed steadily through her day. Stella brought her a salad at noon, and Monica took bites in between phone calls. She met briefly with the staff to make sure everyone was on task, and she touched base with the local media outlets about the upcoming event. Finally, Monica wanted to shore up her international grant proposal, so Allie couldn’t shoot her down for not having all the facts at her fingertips.

She was so engrossed that when Stella knocked on the door and stepped into the room, Monica blinked in surprise. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m leaving for the night.”

“Oh God, it’s six already?” Stretching her back, Monica tried to ease her stiff muscles. “I guess I should order some dinner.”

“Not tonight,” Stella said. “There’s a man in the outer office asking for you. And, honey, if I were ten years younger, I’d be all over that.”

“What man?” A trickle of apprehension slid through her.

“Tall, tan, and British. That voice. Mmm, mmm. I’ll send him in.”

“Wait—” But Stella had already gone. Monica had spent the entire day pushing Cal out of her mind, and now he’d popped up in person. Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone?

Quickly, she pulled out a compact she kept in her desk. Gazing into the tiny mirror, she ran her fingers through her hair, then snapped it shut in disgust and threw it back in the drawer. She wasn’t going out with him. She’d firmly tell him no and get him to accept it this time. And if her makeup was a mess, so what?

Monica’s hand flew to the hollow of her throat as she stood. With shaky fingers, she fastened the top two buttons on her shirt. She probably looked Amish, but she didn’t care.

Cal walked in a moment later. The tattered jeans from this morning had been replaced by a slightly less faded pair, which he teamed with a black button-down. He’d rolled the sleeves up to reveal his lean, tanned forearms. The stubble from this morning had disappeared, leaving his face smooth. Groomed or not—the man looked sinfully hot either way.

“Had a good day, love?”

“What are you doing here?” In spite of her best intentions, Monica’s gaze slowly slid over him. He even wore a pair of black motorcycle boots. Goddamn it. Was he trying to make her come on the spot? If he flashed another glimpse of that tattoo, it was a real possibility.

She forced her eyes back up to his face. To that irritating smirk he wore.

“We were having dinner, remember?”

“No, we weren’t. I told you I had to work.”

He snapped his fingers. “That’s right, so you did.” He glanced around, taking in the picture window that framed the orange sun hanging low in the sky. “You spend all day, every day, in this little box, do you?”

“It’s called an office. People work in rooms like this all over the world.” Being in such a small space with him made her muscles tighten. Tension, electric and immediate, thrummed through her body. She needed to be on her guard, ready for combat.

“Reminds me of a zoo,” he said and began wandering around. He took in the framed photos of various distinguished events and tapped the glass of one picture. “You look good in blue,” he said with his back to her. When he turned, his leaf-green eyes flickered in assessment, taking in her high-collared blouse. “I think I like you best in red, though. Dark red.”

Monica’s gaze traveled over the pictures on the wall. She wore subdued colors in all of them. She hadn’t worn red in years, unless lingerie counted for something. With both hands, she tugged on the hem of her jacket, hyperaware of the way he kept staring at her.

After a few drawn-out seconds, Cal pivoted and continued to peruse the room. He sauntered to the opposite wall and stopped in front of a large oil portrait. “In loving memory of Patricia Campbell. You named the foundation after your mother?”

“Trevor did.” Monica faced the desk and adjusted the angle of her laptop. She couldn’t look at him. If she did, her defenses would weaken. Hell, they were threadbare as it was. Her stomach fluttered every time he rumbled something in that deep, sexy voice—Jason Statham crossed with James Bond. And he smelled good too—crisp and woodsy. His aftershave came wafting toward her with each step he took.

Immune. Immune. The word kept running through her mind like a chant. She clung to it as if it were a talisman.

“You look just like your mum, except your lips are fuller, especially the upper one.” He faced her then, and her eyes sought him, as if they had a will of their own. Cal’s were riveted on her mouth. When she nervously bit her lower lip, that steady gaze never wavered.

“Thank you,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Look, I still have work to do, so…”

With long, graceful strides, he walked over and dropped into her guest chair. “No worries, I’ll wait.”

How was she supposed to get any work done with him sitting there, looking at her as if he were starving and she was a T-bone? She desperately wished she hadn’t buttoned her shirt all the way up to her neck, because the scratchy, stiff material was starting to itch.

In an effort to regain some control, she sat down and placed her hands flat on the top of her desk. Monica focused on his Adam’s apple. If she looked too deeply into those eyes, she’d fold faster than a lowball poker player with a handful of aces. “Cal, I’m not having dinner with you. I’m going to finish my to-do list and go home.”

“Oh my, I think I popped a bit of a boner just now.” He grabbed his chest with one hand. “To-do lists have that effect on me.”

Monica rolled her lips inward to prevent a grin. “Remind me not to show you my spreadsheet. You’ll never be the same.” Oh God, why was she flirting back?

“You, Monica Campbell, know how to put the sin in Sin City.”

He was the tiniest bit amusing. Still, if she gave him half an inch, he’d have her flat on her back in under a minute. She knew herself too well to pretend otherwise. That bad girl part of Monica had been hibernating for the past few years, but the minute Cal Hughes blew into town, it had started to wake up and rattle around inside the tight little cage where Monica kept it. Cal represented Old Monica—the shot-slamming, bad boy–loving, promiscuous girl she used to be. Immune, remember?

“It was so nice of you to drop by, Cal, but I really have a lot of work to finish.”

“Are you seriously going to sit here and cross off items on a list, rather than have dinner with me?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head in mock sadness. “I’m profoundly disappointed. Wouldn’t you rather take in a show? Or better yet, we could hit the craps table. Ever wonder what it’s like to place a ten-thousand-dollar chip on one roll of the dice? I’ll give you a hint,” he whispered, cupping both hands around his mouth. “It’s thrilling.”

Monica set her jaw. “Do you know how much good you could do with ten thousand dollars?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh God, I can’t bear the earnestness. Fine, I’ll make out a check to the foundation. But only if you come play with me tonight. You’ll have fun, I promise.”

Monica knew she sounded sanctimonious. Trevor had a boatload of money, and she never begrudged him a penny…mainly because he gave a ton of it away. But Cal was so tempting, she felt like Eve staring at a bright, shiny apple.

If he gave a donation, then that would make this a legitimate business dinner.

Sort of.

And the foundation could always use the money.

“You’re rather stubborn, aren’t you?” he asked. “Tell you what.” Standing, he dug into his front pocket and pulled out a silver coin. “Heads, you come out with me. Tails, I pick up takeaway and we’ll eat here.” He flipped the coin a foot into the air and caught it in his right hand. Holding it in his fist, he smiled. “Can you stand the anticipation? My breath is absolutely bated.”

“Cal…”

He slapped it on the back of his hand. “Oh look, Her Majesty’s lovely face. Out for dinner it is.” He stuck the coin back in his pocket without showing it to her.

“That’s cheating,” she said, pointing at him. “It could have been tails.”

“You’ll never prove it.” Placing his hands on her desk, he leaned in. “Since I took a cab, we’ll have to drive your car. The Mustang’s still not running properly. Hurry now, chop-chop.”

She thought about arguing some more, but he was just as determined as she was. And she’d never get anything done with him sitting across from her, smelling so good and looking even better. Giving in to the inevitable, Monica shut down her computer. “Just dinner. Then I’m going home.”

Cal watched her pack her bag with a look of smug satisfaction. “If that’s what you really want.”

“It is.” Monica clicked off her desk lamp and walked to the door. “What happened to Allie’s dinner party? I thought your parents were supposed to be there.”

Cal huffed. “Pixie may be my mother, but Paolo is only ten years older than I am. He’s not even a proper stepfather. Never took me fishing, not once.” Though his tone was light, a hint of something darker colored his voice. She refused to ask him about it. Cal’s life wasn’t any of her business. “Besides, I told Allison I had plans with an old friend.”

She gazed at him before hitting the light switch. “We’re not old friends—we met once.”

Before she could walk out of the room, Cal grabbed her purse strap and gave it a pull. He used it to swing her around until she faced him. Through the open door, a soft glow from the hallway allowed her to barely see his face. He looked serious in the half-light, more predatory than ever.

Monica’s heart stuttered as he stepped closer. He was so much bigger than she remembered, his shoulders wider. Maybe she was misremembering their seven minutes in heaven. Maybe she’d built it up into something special when it was nothing more than a simple kiss.

But then Cal framed her face with his large hands, and she felt powerless to move as he lowered his head. She watched him descend toward her, then her eyes drifted closed. When he softly brushed her lips with his, it was all Monica could do not to give in. She wanted to open her mouth wider, stroke his tongue with her own. At his brief touch, heat pooled low in her belly. For a split second, Monica wished she was still the girl whose default was set to yes, because she missed this feeling, this rush of excitement. And she hadn’t been imagining things. Though Cal had barely touched her lips, the effect was potent. That kiss in the garden had been epic after all.

When Cal dropped his hands and took a step backward, Monica’s eyes fluttered open. “I remember snogging you that night, Monica, and touching you right here.” He reached out, and with a careful, light movement, drew his finger from the edge of her collarbone down to the center of her right breast. Even through the heavy fabric of her jacket, her nipple pebbled. “If that’s not friendly, what would you call it?”

At his mocking tone, desire flickered out, and humiliation took its place. He’d had her so easily, with barely a kiss. It took almost no effort on his part, and she was practically falling at his feet. She smacked his hand away. “I’d call it a mistake.” With hurried steps, she scampered to the outer office.

This time when she turned off the overhead lights, she made sure she stepped out of the suite and into the lighted hallway first. She didn’t want to be caught in the dark with him again—it fostered a false sense of intimacy.

Who was she kidding? Cal could have pulled that move in broad daylight and the outcome would have been the same—damp panties and limp-noodle legs.

Cal strolled out a couple seconds later. “Almost broke my toe in there,” he said cheerfully. “Fumbling around in the dark is more fun when you’re naked with a partner. Just a little tip for you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I want to fumble with someone.”

He didn’t offer a comeback, but followed her to the bank of elevators. “So, we’ll head to your place, then off for dinner. What do you fancy?”

Monica punched the down button. “We’re not going to my place.”

His eyes widened, and he looked momentarily bewildered. “Don’t you want to change?”

She glanced down at her pantsuit. “What is your issue with my outfit? I look fine.”

“You look like a missionary.”

“I’m not changing.” Not her clothes, not her stance on bad boys, not her rigorous self-control. She could white-knuckle her way through one night. She was not falling off the bad-boy wagon because he’d copped a feel. It was time to get a grip.

The commas on either side of Cal’s mouth deepened as his lips grew thinner. “Whatever you say. I am curious about something, though. In the office, you said what happened between us in the garden was a mistake. Is that how you really see it?”

“Absolutely.” And she’d made enough to know—some more egregious than others. Cal wasn’t the worst mistake she’d made, but getting felt up by a stranger at her dad’s wedding wasn’t her proudest moment.

“You think mistakes are failings, then? You’re wrong on that score.”

“Really? Please, enlighten me.” She punched the elevator button again, harder this time.

“‘Mistakes are the portals of discovery.’”

Monica tossed her head to displace a wisp of hair dangling on her forehead. “Life lessons by Cal Hughes. Let me get my notebook, Professor. I don’t want to miss a word.”

“Not me, James Joyce.”

That made her stop for a minute. Cal Hughes, quoting literary giants? Or he could be jerking her chain.

He must have read her expression. “Stunned, are you? Didn’t expect someone like me to know that?” Although his expression hadn’t changed and he still wore a tilted smile, his eyes hardened.