Текст книги "His Kind of Trouble"
Автор книги: Terri L. Austin
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
She twisted her head to glance back at him and eyed the bag warily. “What is it?”
“You have this look of fear in your eyes. What could I possibly give you that would cause such a reaction?” He dangled the strings from his finger. “A snake? A spider?”
“Edible underwear? And I keep telling you, I’m not afraid.”
“Keep saying it enough, darling, maybe you’ll start to believe it.” He glanced around the near empty living room. “Love what you haven’t done with the place.”
A big-screen TV broke up the blank, textured walls. Threadbare microfiber covered her consignment-shop sofa. She’d bought it in college and never bothered to upgrade. The coffee table, made of pressed chipboard, came from the “as-is” aisle of a home improvement store. “I haven’t had time to decorate.” Or the interest. After she’d completed her master’s degree, Trevor and Allie had given Monica a check with lots of zeros at the end. When her apartment lease ended, a house seemed like a good investment.
“I’m not judging.” He extended his arm and shook the bag at her. “Open it.”
She plucked it from his finger and, biting her lip, unwrapped the tissue paper to remove a pair of fuzzy pink dice. They matched her steering-wheel cover exactly. Frivolous and silly, they were perfect. “Thank you.” She brushed a finger across the rough faux fur and gazed up to find Cal staring at her mouth.
“You’re most welcome.” He leaned forward and placed the half-empty beer bottle on the coffee table. “I know they’re a bit stupid, but I saw them at the automotive store today, and they made me think of you.”
He was thinking of her? That made her heart flip. “I love them.” As they stared at each other, seconds ticked by, and Monica’s smile faded.
Time slowed down, and all of her senses were attuned to Cal. Monica became conscious of her heart picking up speed, of feeling a little light-headed.
He stood and held out his hand. Large calluses dotted his palm. Was he a blue-collar self-starter or an upper-class drifter? He couldn’t be both.
She placed her hand in his and stood too.
“What are you going to show me tonight?” he asked.
Everything, she wanted to say. Anything. As long as he reciprocated.
Cal dropped her hand and stuck both his own in the back pockets of his jeans. The move drew the knit material tight across his shoulders. A dark flush stole its way up his neck and cheeks. Monica’s eyes darted downward. His cock had grown stiff. He was feeling it too, this pull, this attraction.
“Monica.” He said it like a plea.
If they didn’t leave right now, this very minute, they’d never make it out of the house. Accepting this date was a big step. She might be ready for sex by the end of the night, but not yet. “We should go.”
He nodded, and pulling his hands from his pockets, strode to the door. He opened it for her. As she walked by him and out onto the porch, he muttered something.
“What?” she asked.
* * *
“Nothing at all.” I am in for a bloody long, painful night. That’s what he’d mumbled. Didn’t bear repeating.
Monica had dazzled him from the moment she’d opened the front door. And by the way she’d taken a dekko at him, carefully checking him out from head to toe, the feeling was mutual. Monica’s nervous reaction—fiddling with her hair, meeting his gaze, then dropping her eyes—completely charmed him. And the way she’d stared at his cock just now, with equal parts desire and sheer panic made him want to comfort her. And jump her.
Her dress was lovely. It may have been black, but at least it showcased her figure. Monica Campbell wasn’t meant to be a wallflower, sitting on the sidelines in boring suits. Or this dull house. Off-white walls. Unfurnished rooms. Even the carpet was a bland shade of beige. Monica was living in a black-and-white existence, and he hated to see it. She was full of life and energy, especially when she was sparring with him. Sexy as bloody hell. The last few days, not seeing her, not speaking with her, had been difficult, but he kept his endgame in sight. Cal had a mission to bring some color back into Monica’s life.
Standing on the porch, Cal waited as she locked the door. The outdoor light provided enough illumination that when she bent over, he had a rather nice view of the backs of her thighs. Her legs were long and slender. Shapely. He wanted to get between them more than he’d wanted anything in a very long time. But that ass. It was a thing of beauty.
Straightening, she turned around and caught him staring again.
“Whoops,” he said. “You found me out. But I’m not going to apologize—”
“You never do.”
“Because you have a fabulous bum.”
“Sure.” She shoved her keys into her purse and licked her lips. Keeping her eyes lowered, she used one hand to skim her hip.
“It’s true.” He took a step closer. Her gaze flicked up his chest and finally landed on his eyes.
Unable to deny himself a moment longer, Cal reached around and cupped her bottom. It was full, firm. Sliding his palm up and down her cheek, he traced the edge of her thong through the silky material of her dress. The mental image of Monica wearing nothing but a flimsy piece of lace had him gobsmacked for a moment. Then Cal ran his middle finger from the curve of her ass all the way up to her hip. “It’s a crime to cover up that bottom. You should show it off all the time. Work, home, the supermarket checkout queue. I could write a sonnet about your ass.”
“Sir Mix-a-Lot beat you to it.” She glanced away, a little smile playing on her lips. “And back inside, I was guilty of staring as well.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything, as I didn’t want to embarrass you. I’m quite used to people thinking I’m just another pretty face, and I feel slighted.” He donned an expression of mock sincerity.
“Poor Cal.” She surprised him by draping her arms around his neck. “You want everyone to know you have a pretty mind too?”
“Don’t be daft. I don’t care a jot about my brain. I just want to be recognized for my muscular physique and extraordinary cock. Is that too much to ask?”
Leaning her forehead against his chest for a second, Monica laughed. “You’re quite possibly a narcissist.” She glanced back up at him, amusement shimmering in her eyes. God, she was beautiful.
“You call it narcissism. I call it a healthy body image.” Cradling her chin with his free hand, Cal bent down and kissed her softly. He fought against pulling her into a tight clutch, because although she’d touched him back, he sensed her wariness. So he let her have control of the situation.
After a moment, Monica deepened the kiss, opening her mouth a bit wider. When her tongue hesitantly brushed his, Cal wanted to devour her, rip that dress right off her. But he kept himself in check. Damned difficult when he remembered what she’d looked like with her breasts popping out of her sexy little bra. Remembered how wet she’d been when he slid his finger along her hot slit. He was desperate for another feel.
Monica slid her arms from Cal’s neck and stroked his chest, brushing her fingertips across his nipples. Cal took that as a green light. His hand tightened on her hip before slipping down to her bum, and when she moaned, he let go of her face and wrapped one hand around her nape. She pressed her body into his—it felt bloody marvelous. His cock was rock hard, jutting between them.
Cal wanted to spend the rest of the evening becoming acquainted with every lovely inch of her. He’d strip her down and let his hands get to know her first. Then his mouth.
He walked her backward, until she bumped into the door. Then he pulled his lips from hers. “Let’s go inside.”
Monica pushed at his shoulders. She dropped her hands, and opening her eyes, stared up at him. “No, we should go.” Her voice came out husky and winded.
He was feeling a bit breathless himself. Cal let go of her nape and retreated a pace. Endgame, that’s what he needed to remember. Stick with the plan—ease off.
Monica’s gaze slid past him to the driveway, where the Mustang sat in all its battered glory. “You got it running, huh?”
It took his brain a moment to translate the question. Cal had never been a slave to his prick. At least not since he was a lad. But a kiss and a quick cuddle with Monica took him to the raw edge of desperation. God, he ached for her.
With a deep inhalation, he cast a glance over his shoulder in an effort to concentrate on something other than his hard-on. “I did. It took a new carburetor, igniter, and a great amount of swearing, but I managed.” Blowing out a gusty breath, he faced her once more. “So, what do you have planned for this evening?”
Monica walked to the car. “I thought we’d take in the Strip. I’m sure you’ve seen it, but with all the crazies, every night is something new.”
“Can’t wait.” Cal opened the car door for her. Although he’d had the interior detailed, the black-and-white bucket seats—original, with embossed vinyl—were ripped at the seams, and the less than pristine floorboard showed signs of rust. He should have rented a decent car, something that didn’t require an overhaul. But Cal couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this properly—gone out on a real date. Next time, he’d have to prepare, even though he was useless at planning.
As Monica slid into the seat, Cal bent down and grabbed the lap belt, fastening it around her waist. “No shoulder harness.” His eyes were mere centimeters away from her tits, which were on display tonight, pushed up high and firm. Cal’s mouth grew dry as he stared at them. She was so pale, and there was a tiny mole in the center of her chest, directly above her amazing cleavage.
The universe was testing him tonight. With difficulty, he straightened, but his eyes remained glued to Monica’s breasts. It would torture him, seeing her body outlined in that tight, low-cut dress, but not able to touch.
“Cal.” He yanked his gaze away from her tits and up to her eyes. “Just how extraordinary is your cock, anyway?”
Cal scrubbed his hands over his eyes. “Are you trying to kill me, darling? By the end of the night, my brain will be so deprived of oxygen, I may very well pass out.”
Monica tossed her head back and laughed, exposing her throat. He wanted to lick her there, bite the white skin and leave his mark. Monica brought out primitive urges he didn’t know he had.
“Where did Miss Prim go, eh?”
“She’s taken a backseat tonight. Now get in the car. I’m going to show you Vegas.”
Chapter 8
Monica was still on the fence about this date, but Cal had a way of putting her at ease. Or maybe the intense sexual desire that slammed into her system every time he touched her drowned out all other feelings.
The chemistry between them was combustible. The man gave her an eyegasm every time she glanced at him. Sex seemed inevitable.
But his looks were only part of the attraction. That off-kilter smile and his arrogant sense of humor had her melting. She liked bantering with him. She loved the way he kissed—he put everything he had into it, and she felt it all the way to her toes.
Unlike their fumble in the supply closet, the kiss he’d just given her had been gentle. What would he be like during sex? Commanding and forceful or tender and patient? The anticipation caused her hands to shake slightly as she fingered the metal buckle of the lap belt. When his face had been so close to her breasts, she’d wanted him to touch her, taste her. But seeing him frustrated with desire had been pretty satisfying too.
“When was the last time you were in Vegas?” she asked.
“The last time I felt you up in Trevor’s garden.” Without taking his eyes from the road, he settled his hand on her bare knee. A shot of pleasure coursed through her. And when his rough hand started stroking upward, Monica swallowed hard.
“But your mom…” She had to clear her throat and start again. His touch distracted her. “Your mom has lived here for what, three or four years?”
“I’d meet her in London or Paris. Easier that way.” His strong hand rubbed tender little circles along her thigh. Monica parted her legs slightly. He couldn’t seem to keep his hands to himself, and that excited her even more.
“Which is better, London or Paris?”
As he turned left onto the Strip, he gave her one last stroke before returning his hand to the wheel. “Depends, really. London is exciting, and of course my garage is there.” There was a note in his voice, a wistfulness she didn’t expect.
“You and Pix moved around a lot, huh?”
“Quite.”
“So what’s the longest you’ve ever stayed in one place?” she asked. “Besides London, I mean.”
Cal remained silent. As she stared at his stark profile, highlighted by the bright neon lights and flashing billboards, his expression hardened. He pulled into a casino parking garage and smoothly wound his way up to the fifth level.
He obviously didn’t want to talk about it, just like he didn’t want to talk about Australia. Even though it was none of her concern, Monica wanted to draw out his secrets and discover everything about him.
Working at the foundation, Monica had met celebrities—mostly local ones. She’d met rich donors and high rollers. But Cal was easily the most interesting man she’d ever come across. And an enigma. He’d traveled the world, had probably been to all the places she longed to go, but he remained grounded and charming and kind.
Kind? How so? He wooed her with dinner and donations and fuzzy dice only to get into her panties. And it was totally working. But that didn’t make him kind—that made him a typical male.
After Cal cut the engine, he stretched his arm along her shoulders. “What are you thinking about? I can practically hear the wheels grinding.”
“Just wondering what to show you first.”
“Liar. But you’re in the driver’s seat.”
“Good, I like it there.” She ignored his taunt.
Cal smiled and extracted himself from the car, then walked around and opened her door. Trying to climb out and keep her skirt from riding up to her hips was a hard trick to pull off. Cal’s heated gaze latched onto her legs.
“Was this your evil plan all along?” he asked. “Wear something wicked and leave me gagging for it?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“What do you think?” he asked. Cal snaked a hand around her waist and guided her between rows of cars to the elevator.
She liked that he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. It was intoxicating and made her feel like a temptress for a change.
When they stepped onto the elevator car, Cal stood with his back against the wall and tugged on her waist, drawing her against him until her ass rested against his hips.
For the first time in years, Monica gave over to instinct and shut out reason. Straightening her arms, she shifted them backward to Cal’s thighs. She ran her short nails over his long, hard legs. At the same time, she brushed her ass across his cock.
He drew a sharp breath, then let out a low, raspy growl. “Does public sex do it for you? You weren’t shy that night in the garden, in full view of the wedding party.” Tightening one arm around her, he nibbled behind her ear.
Monica had never fucked on full display, but Cal made every forbidden pleasure sound tempting. “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully, eyeing the security camera. Sex with Cal—while strangers watched? In all honesty, it turned her on just a little. Not that she’d ever let herself do it.
“Not sure I want to share you with the masses,” he said against her neck.
“You can’t share what you don’t have,” she said, sliding her hand along the arm at her waist. “And you haven’t had me.”
“I live in hope.”
The elevator doors opened to a large group of people. Monica grabbed Cal’s hand and moved past them. She led him through the casino with its smoky haze and crescendo of noise, past the gamblers and out into the warm night air. They strode by a grown man dressed as a banana, and melded with the crowd.
“When was the last time you came down to the Strip and hung out?” Cal asked.
“Not since I was a teenager.”
A mass of tourists and street performers flooded the sidewalk. People flowed in and out of restaurants, bars, and gift shops, while she and Cal walked in comfortable silence. He’d intertwined his fingers with hers, making her hand feel small in comparison.
“You grew up traveling the world. To me, this was home,” she finally said. “Not seeing the real Eiffel Tower, just an imitation.” She pointed toward the replica down the street.
“Nothing’s stopping you from going to Paris, or anywhere else for that matter.”
“I have a job, Cal. I can’t just take off.”
He stopped and stared down at her. “Allison doesn’t give you holidays?”
“I don’t take vacations.”
“Well, you should. All work, no play, et cetera.”
“Are you calling me dull?”
“Never,” he said, squeezing her hand. “But you could make room for a little fun.”
“I’m here with you tonight.”
“And I intend to show you a good time.” He bent down and planted a swift, firm kiss on her lips before he resumed walking.
The mischievous look in his eye said he wasn’t talking about wholesome fun. No, Cal referred to delicious, sexy, outrageous fun—the naked kind. And it excited Monica in ways she hadn’t experienced in ages.
At the corner, three unsteady girls threw their arms around one another and staggered into the street before toppling over like drunken bowling pins. A group of older guys in grass skirts and coconut bikini tops helped them up.
Cal dodged a tipsy couple weaving in and out of foot traffic. “I can’t believe Allison let you wander around here as a teenager.”
“She never knew, or she would have put a stop to it.” Monica took it all in. Two men, one dressed as Batman and the other as Sonic the Hedgehog, had a turf fight near a convenience store. People carried enormous plastic souvenir cups filled with booze, and some drunk kid whipped his dick out and peed in the street. Ah, Vegas.
Cal glanced down at her. “You almost look as if you’re enjoying yourself.”
She shrugged. “It’s been awhile.” Mobile billboards advertising strip clubs, night clubs, and entertainers crowded the streets along with party busses and limos. “Like I said, it’s home.”
She led Cal up to an overhead walkway, taking them from one side of the Strip to the other. “What do you do when you travel? See the touristy sights?” she asked. That might get old after a while. Monica wanted to visit the Tower of London, but she didn’t want to see it multiple times.
“It depends on the country.” He tucked her into his side, wrapping his arm around her waist. “In Cambodia, I went to Angkor Wat. There are these enormous temple ruins deep in the jungle, covered in carvings. It’s bloody amazing.”
“What kinds of carvings?”
“Myths, nymphs, monsters, and these violent battles, all told in sculpture.” Cal withdrew his arm as he stopped in front of a scrawny kid strumming an out-of-tune guitar. Pulling out his wallet, Cal dropped a bill into the guitar case. “There you go, mate.” He picked up her hand and carried on.
Monica glanced back and saw the kid’s grin. “How much did you give that guy?”
“Um, I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Having grown up with money all his life, something like that probably didn’t matter to Cal. That night in the restaurant, he’d shoved a wad of cash at the manager. This week, he’d donated large amounts of money as if it were no more than loose change in the red Christmas kettle. He hadn’t done those things because he was altruistic; he’d done them to get his own way. But that wasn’t the case with the street performer.
Monica glanced up at him in frustration. For her own peace of mind, she needed to define him somehow. She had a tendency to label people, put them in a box, and keep them there. Kind of like she’d done with herself for the last four years. There was Good Girl Monica and Bad Girl Monica. Things were easier when broken down into their simplest components.
“I can hear you thinking again,” Cal said. “You’d better watch that, or your engine will overheat, and smoke will pour out of your ears.”
Car analogies aside, Cal was right. Why did it matter which label she used for him? There was one category he couldn’t change—drifter. Cal would shake the Vegas dust from his feet soon and move on to the next place, the next girl. After they had a few nights of fun, Monica would probably never see him again. Eyes wide open.
“Okay,” she finally said, “what about Switzerland? What do you do there?”
He peered down at her. “Ski. What else would one do in Switzerland?”
“Bank? Yodel? Drink hot cocoa?”
“Well, of course, that goes without saying.” Letting go of her hand, he threw his arm around her shoulder. Cal’s answers surprised her. Monica thought he’d mention clubs or beaches as his favorite pastimes, but when he started talking about Cambodia and the temples, his face, his body language, became animated. His enthusiasm was infectious, and as he talked, he waved his hands as he described the sculptures.
Switzerland, on the other hand, didn’t seem to faze him.
“Okay, name your favorite city,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes in thought. “That’s a tough one. Maybe Prague. Beautiful gothic architecture. It’s lovely at night, staring out over the city. Unless you run into the stag parties honking their guts out in the street, which I’d avoid, if I were you. But there are bridges spanning the Vltava River that offer amazing views of the city. The Prague Castle is like something out of a fairy story. I spent six months there when I was seventeen, working for a surly German mechanic. I helped rebuild a ’76 Alfa Romeo convertible. Learned a lot with that car. Red, it was. A pain in the ass to get the parts.”
As they stepped onto the escalator and descended to the street, Monica wondered what it would be like to take off, go to a foreign city and live there for a few months, then move on whenever she got the itch. Sounded liberating. But also irresponsible.
Did he have a different woman in every city? “Must be lonely, traveling all by yourself.”
Near the street, Cal pulled her toward a low wall, behind a row of bushes. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re hinting at something, Miss Prim. If you want to know about me, come out and ask.” As he leaned back, he settled her in between his long legs and placed his hands around her waist.
She planted her hands on his chest and gazed up at him through the shadows. “Fine. Do you have a girlfriend in every city, or fuck-buddies lined up all over the world?”
“No and no. I’m not some kind of man slag, shagging my way through Europe. Not since I was a teenager anyway. I just like to see new things.”
Monica wanted to believe him. Which made her an idiot. The man was gorgeous, and that hoarse voice was a panty-dropper. He may not shag his way through Europe, but she was certain he had no trouble getting laid.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”
Crazy or stupid? They sort of mingled together until it was hard to separate one from the other. But past stupid behavior was definitely one of her hot-button issues.
Cal searched her face. “We don’t have to talk about it. It’s not important.” He softly stroked her cheek.
Monica shoved at his shoulders and walked backward a few steps. “When I was fourteen, I surfed down a steep staircase handrail. I made it halfway before flying off and fracturing my arm.” She jutted her chin in the air, expecting him to call bullshit. For some reason, Cal could read her bluff the way no one else ever had. It made her feel vulnerable, emotionally naked. And she wasn’t lying, not really. The arm thing happened, but it wasn’t the craziest thing she’d ever done.
He stared at her for a long moment. “Which arm?”
“The right one.” She held it up. Her mother had been undergoing radiation therapy at the time and spent most of her days in bed. “Allie was extremely pissed off, but that was normal. I was something of a problem child.”
Cal gasped and lightly captured her arm. He stroked his hand from her shoulder to her wrist, leaving goose bumps in his wake. “You, problematic? Say it isn’t so.”
“It’s so.”
“Come on, let’s find something to eat. I’m starving.” Cal wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled her along. “She warned me off, you know. Threatened to remove my balls.”
Monica blinked up at him. “Who?”
“Allison.”
Her steps halted, and she glared at the passing traffic. After a few seconds, she glanced back at Cal. “You’re not joking?”
Cal peered down at her. “I didn’t mean to create hard feelings. I thought you’d laugh, or I never would have mentioned it.”
Same old Allie, always sticking her nose into Monica’s business. She knew her sister meant well, and Monica had given her enough reason to worry in the past, but would Al ever treat her like an adult? “It’s fine,” she said. “It’s what she does. She’s a worrier.”
They continued walking another block, then Cal pointed to a bar with twangy music blaring through the open door. “There.”
“A country bar?”
“Very American,” he said.
“Very corporate. It’s a chain.”
“What’s more American than that?” He gave her a wide grin. The grooves along the left side of his mouth were deeper, higher than the ones on the right side. Monica found herself smiling back.
She let him guide her inside the saloon, and she glanced around while Cal paid the cover charge. Since it was a Friday, naturally the place was packed. Could have something to do with the bikini bull riding in one corner, or the beer pong tournament on the far side of the room.
Cal placed his hands on her shoulders and steered her like one of his cars toward the long wooden bar where the female bartender wore a leather bikini and matching chaps. “What do you want to drink?” Cal yelled in her ear.
“Beer is fine.”
Cal ordered two. The leather-clad brunette’s smile was an invitation. So were her fake tits rammed into that too-small top. Monica shouldn’t be jealous. Cal wasn’t her boyfriend. He was on loan until he decided to hit the road to Siberia. That didn’t stop the emotion from slamming through her.
Cal stood behind her, his hand resting on her hip, his chest a solid wall against her back. Monica watched his reaction in the mirror behind the bar. He didn’t stare at the bartender—he stared down at Monica.
She looked away and grabbed the cups. Cal slid a bill to the woman and took a beer from Monica’s hand.
“Cheers.” He tapped her glass with his own. He took a sip, then bent down. “Sign says there’s a restaurant upstairs. Shall we eat?”
She nodded and let him thread his way through the crowd while she held on to the back of his shirt. When they passed the mechanical bull undulating in the corner, with a barely dressed blond waving her hat at the crowd, Cal glanced back. “Is there a rule saying you have to flash your baps to ride that? If so, bloody brilliant. What will it take to get you up there?”
“A lack of dignity. Let’s see you take off your clothes and get up there,” she said.
“Maybe after a few more beers, eh?” He began moving toward the stairs.
The restaurant was slightly less crowded. As they waited for a table, Monica sat beside him on a roughly hewn wooden bench and quizzed him about his travels. Occasionally, she’d throw in a car question.
“Best Chinese food you’ve ever tasted?” she asked.
“A little place in Boston, oddly enough.”
“Favorite convertible?”
He shook his head, pinning his lips together. “That’s like asking which is my favorite child. They’re all special in their own way, but I have to say the ’52 Nash-Healey roadster was a labor of love. And hate. Took forever to renovate that car. It was a stunner. Now your turn. Favorite type of music?”
“Boy bands.”
Cal made a face. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“Hey, I’m a product of my environment.”
Through dinner and afterward, Monica spent the next hour and a half listening to Cal. He told her all about his adventures, keeping his stories light and amusing. And there was always a car attached to his favorite places. He’d fixed his first Fiat in Honduras, replaced a broken engine block from a ’67 Benz in Menton. On the one hand, she envied all the experiences he’d chalked up, countries he’d seen, people he’d met. Yet she felt a little sorry for him too. Cal never stayed in one place for very long. That had to be rough on a kid.
“What was Pixie like as a mother?” Monica asked, resting her chin in her palm.
“She was less of a mother and more of a partner in crime. She had very few rules, very few boundaries. She was fun.” He reached for her hand, rubbed his finger across her palm.
“What about school?” Monica asked.
Nothing about his posture altered, but the atmosphere between them changed. And his finger stopped moving over her skin. “I never went to school.”
“Did you have tutors?”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “In a manner of speaking. Babcock made sure I did my homework.”
“What’s a Babcock?”
“She was my nanny, my mum’s keeper. Actually, she was like a mother to both of us. She’d make me sit down each day and study. I hated every bloody minute of it, but she wouldn’t let me go outside until I finished. We had some heated rows, I can tell you that much.” His expression changed when he talked about this woman, softening just a bit. Cal cast his eyes to their joined hands. “Mum was helpless. If Babcock hadn’t taken care of the domestic tasks, they wouldn’t get done.”
“And she followed you all over the world?”
“She was part of the family.” Monica wasn’t sure if Cal realized his grip on her hand had tightened.
“Was?”
He nodded. “Was.”
“I’m sorry, Cal.”
He said nothing, merely nodded. “You know, I think it’s time to get you on that bull.”
Monica understood. He didn’t want to talk about Babcock any more than she liked talking about her mom. It only brought back the sadness, reminded her of what she’d lost. “Yeah, that bull thing’s never going to happen. Have you ever line danced?”
As Cal stood, he raised one brow. “I have not.”
“You’ve been all over the world, and you’ve never done the Push Tush? Oh, it’s time we did something about that.”
* * *
Cal was never going to be a world champion line dancer—he could barely remember the simple steps and kept stumbling in the wrong direction—but he sure as hell had fun trying.
That wasn’t strictly true. He had fun watching Monica try. In those high heels. Wearing that tight dress. The hem kept riding up higher and higher with each move she made. She’d tug it down, but it didn’t stay put for long.
