His Kind of Trouble

by Terri L. Austin

  “We’re not in this to make a name for ourselves. We’re in this to help people.”

  “That equipment and training could help people, Allie. And you still don’t understand—foundation work is a competitive sport. If we don’t start making some big moves, we’ll get left behind.”

  Allie’s brows dipped together. “You make fund-raising sound mercenary.”

  Monica started cramming stuff back in her purse. “It is. For every dollar we get, some other charity goes hungry. It’s a cutthroat business. Donations have risen by seven percent this year. I worked to make that happen.”

  In the last two years under Monica’s leadership, the foundation had grown. She’d added events and luncheons. She’d put together packets and presentations to get larger donors involved. Last year, they’d had their first walk-a-thon, and next year she wanted to add a bike race. It didn’t bring in very much money, but it upped their profile in the community, which was vital for survival.

  Allie sat in the guest chair and crossed her legs. “You know how much money it takes for projects like that?”

  “Yes,” Monica snapped. “I know exactly how much. I did a shit ton of research on it.”

  “That’s not our vision,” Allie said. “We help individuals pay for treatment. That’s our purpose.”

  Allie kept using “our” and “we” as if Monica had any say in the matter. She didn’t. Allie might include her in fund-raising minutiae, but Monica had no voice. “Maybe we should change our vision.”

  “Monica, you probably don’t remember when Mom needed that experimental treatment—you were too young.”

  “I was fifteen, Allie. I remember.”

  “Dad went ass deep into debt to pay for it.”

  “I know that too.” In fact, the board had hired a marketing team who had come up with brochures and ads that featured Trisha Campbell’s story, distilling their mom’s beautiful life into a thirty-second sound bite—turning her from a wife and mother into nothing more than a statistic. Monica wanted to celebrate her mother’s life, not grieve her death repeatedly. Allie always did this, made it seem like she was the only one who remembered what their mother had gone through. But Monica and Brynn had been there too.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Monica said. “If we have no venue, we have no gala. No gala means we can’t offer more than a handful of grants next year.” Monica began gathering up all the paperclips on her desk.

  “We need to get busy,” Allie said. “We have to cancel all the sponsors, the vendors, call all the attendees and the press. This is a disaster.”

  What a shitty day—first her nuclear blowout with Cal, and now this. Monica had put too much of herself into this gala—she couldn’t just give up. She dropped the paperclips back on the desk. “You know what? We’re not canceling that gala. Not without trying to find another location. I’ve worked too damn hard to bring in donations. If we don’t pull this off, we’ll be out in the cold.”

  When a knock sounded at the door, both Monica and Allie turned toward it. Stella tiptoed into the room, bearing two cups and a carafe of coffee. “Sorry to interrupt. Who needs caffeine?” She set the cups on the desk. Her gaze bounced between Monica and Allie. “So are we canceling?”

  “Not yet.” Monica glanced at Allie as she said it.

  “I’ve called an emergency board meeting for tomorrow to explain the situation,” Allie said. “Even if we do find an alternative venue, less than two weeks isn’t long enough to replan this event.”

  “I disagree. I’m up to the task. Are you?”

  “Fine, I’m in, but only if we find a suitable replacement site and the board agrees. But I have to tell you, Mon, I don’t think it’s going to happen. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  “Have you talked to the hotel manager?” Monica poured herself a cup of coffee and added sugar. It was a three-pack kind of morning. “Does he have any rooms available?”

  Allie shook her head. “No, he’s all booked up. I even had Trevor try and convince him, but it was a no-go.”

  Monica turned to Stella. “Tell the staff to stop what they’re doing and call every hotel, every casino. Think outside the box on this one—museums, the Cactus Garden. Try everywhere and anywhere.”

  “You got it, honey.” She took the coffeepot and marched out of the office.

  Monica dropped her purse on the floor. “Are you going to stay and help, or do you need to get home?”

  “I’ll stay. We should divide locations alphabetically. Do we have a white board?”

  There weren’t any apologies, no postmortems on their fight. But working together on this gala thing, maybe they could call a truce. At least for now.

  Monica took another sip of coffee. It was going to be one long-ass day.

  * * *

  Cal finally calmed down. It had taken an hour-long drive in the desert to accomplish it, but the anger he’d felt upon leaving Monica’s house dissipated.

  She’d said some ugly things to him—mostly true—and kicked his ass to the curb…which he deserved.

  Monica claimed he had no purpose in life, that he was running from himself, that he couldn’t confront things head-on. She was partly right.

  Cal’s purpose had been cars and motors. Starting from the bottom up, he enjoyed repairing damaged machinery, bringing it back to life. He was good at it, loved it. But it didn’t consume him the way it used to.

  And he wasn’t running from himself either, not exactly. He just didn’t feel at home anywhere, a misfit. Might as well have a bit of travel, see new and interesting things. But now, it sounded rather dismal. Lonely.

  That bit about confronting things head-on, well, Monica was dead wrong on that score. Cal had confronted her just this morning, face to bloody face, and they’d wound up in a stonking row. Tackling it that way had been a stupid move, admittedly. Direct and honest didn’t work with Monica—she was too wrapped up in her own lies. Not that she’d ever admit it. Predictably, she’d gotten her hackles up. He couldn’t blame her, the way he’d carried on. But seeing Monica in that house, with her paper plates and her bare walls, depressed the hell out of him. No, it enraged him.

  At night, he held Monica in his arms—the woman who made him smile and challenged him and asked a million questions about the world. Then every morning that woman disappeared in a puff of smoke, and Miss Prim took her place. And when Monica had become less communicative in the last week, Cal felt as though she were shutting him out.

  Something or someone had forced her into the role of a drab moth. She was anything but. Monica Campbell was bright colors and loud music, and yes, she was caring and considerate too, but so terribly unhappy. He didn’t know whether it was because Allie peeked over her shoulder every five minutes or that the foundation reminded Monica of her mother—but he wanted to fix it.

  Then she’d accused him of treating her like one of his battered cars. Again, she had a point. When he’d seen her that first day at Trevor’s house, Cal’s only thought had been restoring the bright, bubbly girl he’d kissed five years ago. Now Cal was invested; he’d grown to care about Monica. She wasn’t just a project.

  She didn’t owe him any explanations, not really. It was her life to waste, and even so, he wanted to be part of it. Now Cal would be lucky if she ever talked to him again.

  He looked down at the gift bag in his hand. She definitely couldn’t talk to him if she didn’t have a phone. So he’d bought her an upgraded one. With a bright pink case.

  As he continued stalking to his car, the midmorning sun peeked over his shoulder. When he reached the Mustang, Cal’s own phone vibrated against his hip. Hoping it was Monica, he glanced at the screen with a sigh. “What is it, Paolo?”

  “You have not spoken to Pix,” he said.

  Monica’s words came back to him. No, Cal wasn’t in a hurry to see Pix—there really wasn’t anything left to say. His mum could live her life, and he’d live his. So this is what you call living, mate? Fighting with the few peo
ple you care about? But this wasn’t about Cal and his life, this was about Pixie abandoning Babcock.

  “I don’t know what you expect me to do, Paolo. Pixie and I had a row.”

  “And?”

  He couldn’t do it. Not today. Cal couldn’t stand any more confrontations. He wanted to lose himself in the Mustang’s transmission. Working on cars had always been Cal’s therapy. He needed it today, before the women in his life sent him ’round the bend.

  * * *

  Monica finished her fourth cup of coffee. While it kept her alert, it didn’t help her nerves. Allie made her batty. She insisted on sharing Monica’s desk, and they’d been calling every suitable spot for hours now, with zero results.

  Standing, Monica stretched her arms over her head. “I need a break. Ten minutes.”

  Allie crossed off another hotel. “We’re not going to find a place on such short notice. It’s never going to work.”

  “I like your optimism.” Monica grabbed her coffee cup and left the office. It had been like that most of the day—Allie complaining, insisting they cancel the gala. It gave Monica a headache.

  Stella found her in the break room, a gift bag in her hand. “This just came for you.”

  Another gift from Ryan? She hoped to hell not. Monica took the bag and pulled out a bright pink phone and a note.

  I’m an asshole.

  She smiled at that. This was Cal’s apology.

  He’d been way out of line this morning. She’d said some really hurtful things to him too. Monica had been on the defensive. He claimed she was living a lie. Was he wrong? She still couldn’t merge the two separate sides of herself—maybe she never would. But that wasn’t the same as living a lie.

  Monica gazed down at the brown pantsuit she’d changed into after he’d left that morning. So maybe she had gone overboard when she’d done a complete one-eighty—she had her reasons. And she probably didn’t need to look like a pilgrim to do her job well. Fair enough.

  She couldn’t think about it right now though. She had to figure this gala thing out, ASAP. After refilling her cup, Monica made her way back to her office.

  In between listening to Allie making calls, Monica set up her new phone and synced it, discovering she had twenty-three voice-mail messages.

  She deleted all six of Allie’s automatically. No need to put herself through that. She deleted Ryan’s messages as well. One from Cal, apologizing, asking if she liked the phone. As arrogant and cocky as he was, he had a side of him that liked to be reassured. It was sweet and unexpected.

  Everything about Cal was unexpected. Like this morning. His anger had sprung out of nowhere, but he was furious that she was living in a virtually unfurnished, blank house. He’d said she needed color and pillows and curtains. He was right. She’d been living like a guest in her own house for months, but she didn’t have the energy to do anything about it. She wasn’t even sure she liked that house.

  Allie glanced over, her eyes focusing on the gift bag. “Who’s that from?”

  “Cal sent it to me.”

  Allie’s full lips rolled inward. “So is this serious? This thing with Cal?”

  Monica shrugged. “We’re hanging out.” This morning hadn’t been fun. It had been powerful and intense, like a thunderstorm—all sound and fury, leaving a flood of emotional destruction in its wake.

  “I wasn’t sure about him at first,” Allie said, “but I like him. He’s sweet with Jules, and he’s been letting the twins help him fix the Mustang. He’s very patient.”

  “We’re not serious.” Monica’s stomach clenched. She wished things were different with Cal, but she couldn’t expect him to turn into someone else, someone who stuck around. That wasn’t fair.

  “I just worry.”

  “You don’t need to, Al. I’m a grown woman.”

  “Listen, I know I come off all nosy—”

  “And bossy,” Monica added.

  “But—”

  “And condescending.”

  Allie narrowed her eyes. “It’s only because I love you and I don’t want to see you get hurt.” She leaned back in her chair. “You have the worst taste in men. Except for Ryan, of course.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong, Al. Ryan was the wrong choice for me. We would have been miserable.” Monica knew it was true, had known it all along, but she’d kept trying to make him fit, like a too-tight designer shoe from the sale rack.

  “What was so wrong about him?” Allie tilted her head to one side. “He had his shit together. A job. A life. He wanted to marry you.”

  Monica stroked the pink phone with her thumb. “He didn’t mind that I wear gray pantsuits.”

  Allie’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Come on, let’s get back to work.”

  At one thirty, Allie called it quits. She stood and grabbed her purse. “I’m so sorry, Mon, but this is a bust. We did everything we could.”

  Monica rose from her desk. “We haven’t exhausted every possibility. We need to look for offbeat places. Can Trevor call in a few favors?”

  “I’ll ask, but I think you need to face the fact that it’s over. We’ll try it again next year.”

  There had to be one place in Vegas still available. “I’m not giving up.”

  Allie walked to the door. “Your time would be better spent figuring out new projections for next year’s goals. There’s going to be a hell of a lot less money to work with.”

  After Allie left, Monica snarled at her computer. More projections, more numbers and spreadsheets. It made her head pound that much harder.

  She needed to call Cal, thank him for the phone, but she was reluctant to talk to him just yet. Her anger had faded, but she was hurt by his accusations. Monica did the best she could to prove to Allie and the rest of her family that she’d changed. Why was that so hard for him to understand?

  As she worked up the courage to call him, her phone buzzed. Ryan again. Grabbing her purse and her new pink phone, she walked to the outer office and stood next to Stella’s desk, waiting as the older woman wrapped up her call.

  Stella hung up and shook her head. “I’ve crapped out. Not a place in town that’s available on the date we need. So what’s next?”

  “We brainstorm. I need to run an errand, but I’ll be back in an hour. Hold down the fort?”

  “You may have to admit defeat on this one, kid.”

  “I may. But not yet.”

  Monica had a ton of work to do, but she couldn’t put off Ryan any longer. It was time to cut ties, once and for all. She couldn’t accuse Cal of not confronting life head-on and then be afraid to do it herself.

  As Monica drove, Cal’s words about hiding kept coming back to her. Hiding what, her racy underwear? That was just something she indulged in. It made her feel good, but it wasn’t an insight into her psyche.

  Cal didn’t know her, not really. They’d been hooking up for a few weeks—that didn’t make him an expert on all things Monica. Evan agrees with him. Well, Evan dated bimbos, so he wasn’t the most reliable source of advice.

  She pulled her car into Ryan’s driveway and closed her eyes. She hated to go through this again. It had been hard enough the first time, seeing the disappointment and understanding in his eyes. She felt cruel, but she couldn’t let him continue to hope. Rock, meet hard place.

  Getting out of the car, Monica walked to the house and rang the bell. She heard uneven thumping on the other side of the door. Ryan’s crutches.

  When he saw her, his face lit up in pleasure. “Hey, what are you doing here?” He leaned forward to kiss her, and she swiftly gave him her cheek. He thumped awkwardly backward, allowing her to enter the house.

  The place looked as neat and tidy as ever, and his laptop sat open on the coffee table. “Have you been working?”

  “Oh, yeah. Quarterly taxes.”

  Monica gripped her purse strap. “Where’s your nurse?”

  “I sent her home after the first day.”
>
  “Then how have you been getting along?” Now she felt terrible. She should have called more often, made sure he had everything he needed.

  “Hey, don’t worry.” His gaze scanned her face. “I’ve been fine. I can manage getting around, and I’ve had my groceries delivered. I’m good.” He grinned, all handsome and perfect and blond.

  Hobbling over to the couch, Ryan dropped onto it with a wince. Monica grabbed a pillow and shoved it under his leg. “When was the last time you took a pain pill?”

  “I don’t need one.” He grabbed her hand. “I’m fine. Sit down and talk to me.”

  “Ryan.”

  His grin slowly faded. “You’re not here to check up on me, are you?”

  Monica forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  “So, it’s really over. You and Cal, you’re together?”

  Monica’s hand lifted to the top button on her blouse. “It’s… Who knows?”

  “I thought if I gave you enough time, you’d miss what we had. That you wouldn’t feel so panicked and get that look in your eyes.”

  “What look?” Monica frowned and dropped her hand.

  He patted the sofa next to him. “Sit down for a minute.”

  Monica hesitated, then sat, perching next to him. “What look?”

  “When I’d talk about the future, your eyes would start racing around the room, like you were looking for the nearest exit. I thought you were just wary, but that’s not it, is it?”

  Oh God, he’d nailed it. Every time Ryan had talked about moving in together or getting married, Monica wanted to change the subject. Was her reaction specific to Ryan, or did she feel that way about commitment in general? What if Cal started talking about the future?

  Stupid question. Cal didn’t make plans. He was a live-in-the-moment kind of guy.

  “Did you ever love me?” Ryan asked. He didn’t wait for her to answer before he spoke again. “I thought you just didn’t like to say the words, the same way you never talk about your mother. The same way you never talk about the frustrations with your job or the fact that you’re so hard on yourself.”

  All of it was true. Yet Monica talked about those things with Cal. She opened up to him in ways she never had with anyone. Not even Evan. She felt safe with Cal. She could show him all of herself, and he didn’t judge her for it. Except this morning. He’d judged the hell out of her then.