His Kind of Trouble

by Terri L. Austin

Monica would never believe that of him. She was too jaded by her past to have any faith in what Cal said. So don’t tell her, you git—show her.

  How? Cal had no experience with relationships. Any time he stayed in one place too long, he’d immediately start feeling restless. He didn’t know how to be a partner. And he couldn’t offer her any guarantees.

  Thrusting his hand in his pocket, Cal did what Babcock would have done in a crisis. She would have cooked his favorite comfort foods and told him stories of her childhood in Cairns, near the reef. Cal didn’t cook, so he dialed Mr. Lawson and ordered everything he could think of to tempt her. He could tell her about zip-lining across the jungles of Peru or the giant Buddhist prayer wheel in China.

  As he waited for her to get out of the shower, Cal stepped onto the terrace and called Pix. He rubbed at his eyes as he waited for her to pick up.

  “Calum,” she answered. That was all she said, all she needed to say. He heard her pain, and it echoed his own.

  “You let me down, Mum. You let her down.”

  “I know. I wish I could make it up to you, but I can’t. I assumed you called to tell me good-bye. I’m rather surprised you’ve stayed in town this long.”

  After the revelations Cal had shared with Monica, he should be throwing everything he owned in a bag and hightailing it to the airport. Don’t get attached. He’d lost sight of the one lesson that had served him well, and become smitten with Monica. He didn’t know how long he’d stay, but he wasn’t ready to leave her yet.

  “No, but I’m flying to L.A. with Jules next week. She has her court appearance.”

  “Oh. Wish her luck for me?”

  “I will.” Cal hesitated, didn’t know what to say. Dealing with his emotions—it was all slightly embarrassing. “I’ll talk to you when I get back?”

  “Thank you, Calum.”

  He ended the call and turned to see Monica standing at the entrance of the French doors. The lights from the living room silhouetted her. She still wore his shirt. It hung over her trousers, making her appear tiny. She’d draped the jacket over her forearm.

  “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “You weren’t. I was talking to Pix. You were right this morning, I’ve been avoiding her.” Cal wiggled a finger at her. “You didn’t have to get dressed on my account.”

  “I’m leaving.” She said it with such finality, it was a punch to his solar plexus.

  “What?” With long strides, he walked to her. Her eyes were still red, her face free of makeup. She looked younger and more vulnerable than she had five years ago. He brushed a stray hair from her cheek. “I ordered a vast amount of food. I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

  She shrugged. “I’m still not hungry.”

  Cal wrapped his hand around hers and laced their fingers together. “I thought we agreed you’d stay.”

  Monica tugged her hand from his and took several steps backward. “Cal.” She swallowed and rubbed her palm over her hips. “I really… I care about you. A lot.”

  “I care about you too.”

  “That’s why I have to leave. I think we should end this. And I’m serious. I don’t want you calling me or sending me gifts. Let’s just make a clean break.”

  “What are you on about?” With narrowed eyes, he took a step forward.

  She didn’t back up. Instead, she extended her arm to keep him away. “I know you can’t stay in one place for long. It’s not who you are. But that’s what I need. I need someone in my life who won’t leave.”

  “Because I can’t give you any guarantees, you want to end it altogether? In typical Monica fashion, you’re running scared.” His harsh tone dared her to deny it.

  “Yeah. That’s it in a nutshell.”

  “The truth. How novel.”

  “If I get in any deeper with you, I’m going to wind up hurt. I’m protecting myself. You of all people should understand that. That’s why you never settle anywhere—so you don’t have to get close to anyone.”

  “Don’t do this, Monica. We have a connection, you and I.”

  She dropped her arm. “Can you promise you’ll be around next month?”

  Cal turned away and looked at the urn full of bright red flowers. He glanced back, met her eyes. “No. But I’ll fly back to Vegas at regular intervals. We can still be together.”

  “You’ve had me pegged from the beginning. I have been afraid. Afraid of making stupid mistakes and letting Mom down, letting Allie down.” Monica’s eyes darted away as she cleared her throat. “I’m not sure about much in my life right now, but I know I want more than regular intervals. I don’t deserve it. I know that, but I want it.”

  “Monica, I’ll give you everything I have, darling.”

  “On a part-time basis. When it’s convenient for you.”

  Cal couldn’t argue with that. He couldn’t promise her tomorrow, let alone forever.

  “Before she died”—Monica crossed her arms and glanced away—“my mom told me to follow my heart. She said it wouldn’t let me down. I thought it was the morphine talking, because my heart leads me in the wrong direction every time.” Nibbling her lip, she sniffed. “But I don’t think I’ve been listening to my heart. I’ve been listening to my fear.”

  His steps ate up the distance between them. Placing his hand beneath her chin, he raised her face until she looked at him. “That’s what you’re listening to right now—fear.”

  “No.” Tears filled her eyes. “Look at me. I haven’t cried in years, and now I can’t stop. You run from everything too, Cal. It’s who you are, and I’m not judging you, but I don’t want to be a part of it either.” She grabbed his hand and kissed his palm. “I have to go.”

  He stood silent as she walked away. Cal opened his mouth to call her back, but what for? He didn’t have anything lasting to offer her. And she did deserve more. More than an uneducated sod like him.

  Not for the first time, Cal wished he were a better man.

  He’d never felt so utterly alone. Not even when he’d lost Babcock. And he had no one to blame but himself.

  * * *

  Sitting in her car, Monica ran her hands over the fuzzy steering-wheel cover and glanced at the pink dice Cal had bought her. Had she made a terrible mistake?

  She was tired. Mentally. Emotionally. Monica had never been so open with anyone the way she had been with Cal. It sucked her dry.

  Walking away from him was the hardest thing she’d ever done. The easy thing would have been spending the night in his arms. Every night, as long as he decided to stick around. And Monica would do whatever it took to keep Cal happy, to keep him by her side, because that’s who she was. Today had been chock-full of revelations, none of them particularly pleasant, but she’d learned one thing—she was tired of making herself over to please other people.

  Cal tortured himself because he’d wanted to leave Babcock. But he’d stayed because the woman who raised him had been sick and dying. Australia was a onetime deal. Monica couldn’t depend on him. He’d admitted it himself.

  She needed to figure out who the hell she really was, without worrying about Cal leaving or when he would come back. If he’d come back. So Monica ended it, and shattered her own heart in the process.

  She wasn’t sure what to do next, where to go. She couldn’t go home and lie on the bed where she and Cal had had sex this morning. God, was it only this morning? Today seemed like an eternity.

  She reached into her purse, grabbed her phone, and speed-dialed. “Hey, can I come over?”

  Twenty minutes later, she kicked on Evan’s door, juggling a bottle of Patrón, a carton of ice cream, and her computer bag.

  When he answered, Evan’s gaze bounced over her, then he snatched the bottle from her hand. “I’ll get you a spoon.”

  Once they’d settled on his sofa—purple suede—he swirled the tequila in his glass and raised one brow. “I have fortification. Now spill.”

  Monica blew out a breath. “I hate my job. I’m in love with Cal—I didn’t get vacc
inated. I got the disease. Your advice is the worst. And the ballroom flooded, so the gala’s off. My life is a shitpile.” She scooped a spoonful of Chocolate Therapy ice cream into her mouth. It wasn’t therapeutic and would probably go straight to her ass.

  “My God, it’s you,” Evan said before leaning over and kissing the side of her head. “Monica Campbell, my best friend. She’s back, ladies and gentlemen,” he said to the muted actors on TV. Then he toasted her and took a sip.

  “No, Ev, I’m not the same. I don’t even know who I am.”

  “Self-awareness is completely overrated. So, you’re in love with Cal. He seems like a decent guy.”

  “He’s not forever material, but damn, I wish he were. He’s so funny and he’s smart and his smile is lopsided. He’s an artist with cars. But I want it all, Ev. I want the ring and the ’til-death-do-us-part crap. How can I be happy, wondering when he’s going to bail?”

  “You’ve got it bad.” Evan scrunched farther down on the sofa, propping his yellow-socked feet on the glass coffee table. “Why do women need forever?”

  “I think I have issues.”

  “No,” he gasped, “not you.” He took a sip of Patrón and wiggled his toes. “Monnie, my friend, we all have issues.”

  “I mean with my mom. When she got sick, I felt scared and alone, so I started looking for affection in losers, thinking if I could conform into what they wanted, I’d be worthy. I even did that with Ryan.”

  “Oh God, stop, I’m begging. All this navel-gazing is going to make me drink until I pass out, then my eyes will be puffy tomorrow. Look, I date crazy orange women with big, fake tits. Probably because my dad paraded cocktail waitresses and showgirls in front of me during my formative years. You work with what you have. But, Mon, I know you.” He set his glass on the table and turned to her. “I know you. You’ve never been in love before now. Maybe Cal is good for you.”

  She shoved the spoon into the ice cream and set the carton next to his glass. “I just broke up with him. Not that we were really together.”

  “Despite your criticism of my advice, I’m going to leave you with one more nugget of wisdom. If you find love, grab it. You don’t know when or if it will come around again.” Fine lines fanned out from the corners of his brown eyes. For once, he wasn’t being a smart-ass.

  “I can’t think about it anymore tonight. I’ve got a board meeting tomorrow and a gala to cancel. How about you? How’s Hope?”

  “Heather. We broke up. She hated my clothes and accused me of being color-blind. And why don’t you just have the gala at Allie’s house? She’s got that fricking mansion. The garden is big enough to hold everyone. Have tents or whatever out there.”

  She stared at him. “That’s insanely brilliant.”

  He shrugged. “I have my moments.”

  So the next question—give Allie advance notice, or bring it up at the board meeting? Allie would feel pressured at the meeting, less inclined to say no. Monica was determined to make this event happen by any means necessary. She could ask Allie’s forgiveness later.

  “Can I take a shower?” she asked. “And borrow some sweats to sleep in?”

  “Like I own sweats.” He waved a hand toward the hallway. “You know where everything is. Go on, and I’ll make up the sofa. I’m not giving you my bed.”

  “Thanks.” Monica tapped the side of his face with her palm and headed down the hallway.

  “Hey,” Evan called.

  She turned around. “Yeah?”

  “It’s all going to be all right. Your sucktastic life, I mean.”

  “Sure it is.” Evan must have been drinking something stronger than tequila if he really thought that. Nothing ever turned out okay. Not her mom, not her job, not her terrible decisions with men. Although Cal didn’t feel like a bad decision. He felt just right.

  But if Monica had taken a chance on Cal, she’d never be secure. Even though he’d offered her regular intervals. That was a big compromise for him. But security was important to her. More important than spending time with the love of your life? Whoa. Who said Cal was the love of her life? Except that he kind of was.

  Cal was unlike anyone she’d ever met. She couldn’t pigeonhole him, couldn’t put him in a box. Just when she thought she might have him figured out, he would reveal something new and wonderful about himself. And the sex was off-the-charts amazing. She couldn’t imagine letting another man touch her ever again, let alone make love to her. Monica wanted only Calum.

  So where did that leave her? Monica should have opted for the tequila—maybe then her brain would stop dashing back and forth and the pain in her heart would dull to bearable levels.

  In Evan’s bright aqua bedroom, she chose a pair of sea-green boxer shorts and a Ralph Lauren T-shirt from the dresser drawer. After grabbing a quick shower in his guest bathroom—Gucci towels, naturally—she shuffled back to the living room.

  “Do you need another blanket?” Evan asked, carefully unfolding the zebra-print duvet.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks, Ev.” He patted her arm as he headed to his bedroom. Monica climbed beneath the Egyptian cotton sheets. They weren’t as soft as the ones in Cal’s villa.

  She pulled the silk duvet up to her chin and looked out over the Vegas skyline. Neon lights as far as she could see.

  Monica stared at them until the sun came up.

  * * *

  Monica Campbell was naked—not a bloody stitch. She lay between his legs, her hair trailing over his hips. She smiled right before her mouth slid over him, taking the length of him deep in her throat. Heaven. Then she gazed up at him and started buzzing.

  Cal pried one eye open, realized he’d been dreaming. Monica wasn’t here. She’d left last night, broken things off for good.

  He fumbled around for his phone on the bedside table. “What is it, Jules?”

  “He’s had a heart attack.” Her voice sounded tremulous.

  Cal sat up, his heart still pounding from the dream. “What? Who?”

  “Father. Mummy just called. I have to get back home immediately.”

  Shit. “Are you still at Allie’s house?”

  “Yeah. Will you go home with me, Cal?” She sniffed. “I need you.”

  “Of course, but slow down. How serious is it?”

  “I don’t know.” She cried in earnest now.

  “Is Trevor around? Let me speak to him.”

  “I’ll get him.”

  “Jules? It’s going to be all right.” He hoped that was true. For her sake, for his stepmother’s. When Cal had failed to return Jules to L.A., his father had been positively livid. Cal wasn’t sure what kind of welcome he’d receive from his stepmother, either, but he’d stick by Jules’s side and see her through.

  A moment later, Trevor’s cool voice said, “Terribly sorry about this, Cal. Is there anything you need? I could book you a private flight.”

  “Yes, actually. Thanks for that. And Trev, if anyone asks, I’ll be back. Do you understand, mate? I’m not leaving for good.”

  “I won’t get rid of the Mustang, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “It’s not. Get Jules to the airport, and I’ll meet her in less than an hour.”

  Suddenly, he was very glad he’d spoken to Pixie the night before. If anything happened to his mum and they hadn’t made up, Cal would never forgive himself. Although he’d never have his father’s approval, none of that mattered now. His father might be dying, and Cal wanted to say good-bye.

  He threw back the covers and nabbed the clothes littering the floor. Monica. He reached for the phone to call her, but remembered she never wanted to see him again. But no time for that now, he needed to get to Jules.

  Four and a half hours and countless tissues later, Cal and Jules arrived at the hospital. His little sister was a mess, her eyes nearly swollen shut from crying so hard.

  In the waiting room, his stepmother, Tara, sat in a corner. Jules ran to her, throwing her arms around her mum’s shoulders. Cal stopped in the doorway
and stared at them. Unequipped to deal with this kind of thing, he never knew what to say.

  As he walked toward them, he held his hand out to Tara and flung his arm around Jules’s shoulders. “How is he?”

  His stepmother was a very quiet woman. The exact opposite of Pix. “He’s going to be all right. He’s had a mild heart attack and needs a pacemaker.”

  Cal closed his eyes in relief. “That’s good news.”

  “The doctor says if he doesn’t slow down, the next one could do him in.”

  Not so good news. The old man would never slow down—it wasn’t in his nature.

  Cal settled Jules in a chair, then he bent down in front of Tara and patted her knee. “How are you holding up?”

  Wispy blond hair framed her face. Her skin looked pasty, and dark rings circled her red eyes. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for bringing Jules home.”

  “You’re welcome.” He glanced between the two of them. Poor Jules looked pale, scared. “Tea. That’s what we all need.” He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile and went hunting for some. Babcock’s cure-all, sans the brandy.

  He found the cafeteria, bought three cups, and laced the weak brew with lots of sugar and milk. He carried them back to the waiting room. Cal felt completely useless. But maybe just being here, sitting next to Jules and holding her hand—maybe it helped.

  He fought the urge to call Monica. She would know what to say, what to do in this type of situation. She was good at that. He needed that.

  Monica Campbell hadn’t been out of his life for twenty-four hours, and he missed her so much he ached with it.

  * * *

  Monica shook hands with all the board members. Even Stanford. The meeting had gone well. Allie’s English garden would hold the event this year. Monica had a ton of work ahead of her, and she was glad. It would take her mind off of Cal.

  She hadn’t stopped thinking about him since she’d left the villa the night before. Was leaving Cal the right thing to do? Because it felt wrong on every level.

  Deena Adams sauntered over and nodded. “I owe you an apology. You’re not just here to rubber-stamp your sister’s decisions. Whatever help you need to pull this off, let me know.”