Monica pointed to the garden door, tucked in the corner behind a potted orange tree. Cal shrugged his jacket on and followed her outside.

The night was cool. The new moon didn’t offer much light, and only a few stars dotted the sky. The vast garden wasn’t dark though. Tiny white lights hung from tree branches and lit the pathway.

Cal stopped walking and looked around. “This is exactly like my grandfather’s garden. Except for the grotto.”

“That’s a Vegas thing.” Monica followed the pathway past the rosebushes. From here, she could see into the dining room. Two dozen people sat at the long table. They could probably see her too, if they were paying attention.

Cal wrapped his hand around her waist. “Want to go back inside?”

“Not at all.” She turned to him and splayed her hands across his chest. The knit material felt soft, like it had been washed a thousand times. Monica stood on her toes and ran her tongue along his jawline. “You know, I’ve never been kissed in a garden.”

“Haven’t you? What a terrible shame. We should fix that.” Cal leaned down, but instead of kissing her, he gently bit down on the place where her neck and shoulder met.

Monica grabbed a handful of his hair. “I like that.”

Cal lifted his head and nodded toward the house. “Is there somewhere a little less out in the open?”

Being out in the open made it that much more exciting, as far as Monica was concerned. But if he needed privacy, she’d go along. As she led him toward the pond, she cast one last glance at the house, glad she wasn’t stuck inside. The fresh air felt good. The flowers in the garden smelled fragrant and sweet, rather than overpowering. And she could be herself out here, without everyone watching over her and disapproving.

Once the path ended, Monica walked across the thick grass to the back wall. The garden lights didn’t extend this far. It was dark. Private, like he wanted.

She swung around. “What do you—”

Cal didn’t let her finish. Cupping her jaw with his free hand, he bent down and kissed her.

As his mouth moved over hers, Monica felt it clear down to her toes. They curled inside her shoes. Her belly fluttered and her knees grew weak. And it wasn’t the champagne. Cal Hughes took her breath away.

He let go of her hand in order to cup her breast. Monica’s nipple strained against the rasp of his thumbnail. Her panties grew damp and her pussy clenched. Fuck being on her best behavior. She needed this rush of desire, this instant attraction. She felt so alive right now.

Parting his jacket, she ran her hands up his torso. Solid. Muscular, but lean.

Then his hand tugged on her bodice and palmed her bare breast. The cool air picked up a curl, and it tickled her cheek.

Monica tore her mouth away from his. “You don’t have to be so gentle.”

Cal’s grip on her breast tightened, and his lips slipped down the column of her neck, taking little bites while he grazed her nipple with his thumb.

She reached for his dick, rubbing her fingers along the edge of his fly, getting a feel for it. “Yes,” he murmured against her neck, “more of that.” Then he shoved his hips against her hand. He grew under her touch. Hard and long—Monica couldn’t wait to see it. Maybe taste it.

“Mon?” Allie. “What the hell are you doing?”

Monica peeked over Cal’s shoulder. Standing at the edge of the path, Al stared at them. With a hand at her belly, she shook her head. “Oh, Monica.”

“Shit,” she whispered, pushing out of Cal’s arms. She quickly shoved herself back into her dress.

Cal straightened. He gazed down at her, looking dazed, and ran a hand along his jaw. “Damn.”

Monica stepped around him. “I…we just needed some air.”

“Get in the house.” Allie used a soft tone, one that spoke of disappointment rather than anger. Monica could handle anger, fight against it. But this… Pack your bags, Campbell. There’s an extended guilt trip in your future. “Stop by the powder room and get yourself together. Your hair’s a mess.”

“I don’t want to go back inside, Al.” Cal stood next to her, silent. Waiting. She could still ride away with him, lose herself until tomorrow.

Allie dropped her hand. “Dad won’t cut the cake until you’re there. Please do this for him.”

As upset as she was, Monica didn’t want to ruin his perfect day. She took another peek up at Calum Hughes. “Maybe next time, huh?”

“Definitely.” Cal bent down and gave her one last, hard kiss.

Then Monica ran toward the house without looking back.

Chapter 2

Five years later…

Monica Campbell’s carefully planned schedule was shot to hell. Not just her schedule—her entire morning. She needed a do-over. If only those worked after the third grade, she’d be golden, because this day was shaping up to be a real pisser.

She’d woken up at six, bleary-eyed and in desperate need of coffee, but her machine had refused to give up the dark roast. Then her sister, Allie, had texted to switch the location of their eight o’clock meeting. Now instead of a ten-minute drive to the office, Monica had to hightail it from Vegas to Henderson. Hastening her routine, she’d sped to the nearest coffee shop and stood in line with all the other caffeine addicts in the throes of withdrawal—thirty-two minutes wasted—before heading straight into rush hour.

Allie had given no explanation for the change in locale, no apology. But since she was the boss, it was her call. And she never let Monica forget it.

One thing Monica resented above all else was having someone dick with her schedule. And today the universe had her in its crosshairs. Roll with the punches. Go with the flow. People uttered the trite phrases as if they were actual philosophies. But if time didn’t mean anything, why had clocks been invented? Yeah. Argue that one, slackers.

As the coordinator for the cancer foundation named in honor of her mother, Monica kept busy; her job was one big blur of back-to-back meetings. Allie’s little hitch threw everything into chaos. So as she sat behind the wheel in bumper-to-bumper traffic, Monica sipped her sugary black coffee, called the office to reschedule three appointments, and left detailed messages for two separate committee chairs.

By the time she pulled through the gates of Allie’s sprawling mansion, Monica had regained a small measure of control. She’d still have to scramble to fit in all of her appointments, but if she could keep Allie on point, Monica might finish everything on her to-do list and make it out of the office before midnight.

After parking in the circular drive, Monica walked at a brisk clip to the side of the house, her mind spinning in ten different directions. But when she rounded the corner and neared the freestanding garage, her feet stopped moving altogether.

“Bloody fucking hell.”

Monica didn’t bat an eye at the crude words. It wasn’t the masculine British accent that brought her to a standstill, either. No, it had everything to do with that deep, raspy voice. It sounded very familiar, but this man’s timbre was lower, much rougher than the one she remembered.

He stood bent beneath the hood of an ancient Mustang. The light gray Bondo filler spread along the car’s body was as faded as his jeans—so faded they’d turned white in the well-worn creases and at the seams. The denim wasn’t artificially distressed. It was the real deal.

Sounds of metal clanging against metal emanated from the engine where the stranger worked. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Monica didn’t know much about British accents, but she recognized a posh one when she heard it. And despite the rumbly tenor and foul words, his accent was as high-end as it got.

When he retreated one step and rose to his full height—well over six feet—Monica’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. His torso was bare, without an annoying shirt to mar the smooth expanse of deeply burnished skin.