Still holding Cal’s hand, Monica looked around. “This is amazing.”

“Reminds me of another garden. Another night,” Cal said.

She turned to him. “What if Allie hadn’t interrupted us that night? Would you have been so eager to see me again, or would you have avoided me like the flu?”

“After what we did an hour ago, how can you ask me that question?” With his back to the low light, Monica found it impossible to read his expression.

Five years ago, Cal had been a dangerous bad boy looking for an easy lay. “I think if we’d fucked that night, you wouldn’t remember my name.”

He squeezed her hand. “I’m not the same man I was five years ago, but I’d have remembered you, Monica Campbell. You’re unforgettable.” With his free hand, he stroked her cheek and bent his head. His lips stopped inches from hers, but he paused. “Would you have forgotten me?”

“Yes.”

“Liar,” he said on a breath. He rained tiny kisses over her lips, her chin.

“How have you changed?” she whispered.

Cal straightened. “I’m older, wiser. More devastatingly handsome than ever before.”

Monica sensed a depth to him that he hadn’t possessed five years ago. Maybe it had happened over the last year with Babcock’s death. Losing a loved one could do that to a person. When her mother died, it had changed Monica. The grief and loss made her more careless than ever.

Monica shook off the guilt and sadness that crept in every time she thought about her mom. Allie’s accusation yesterday had hit the mark. She didn’t like talking about her mom, or thinking about the times they’d shared. It was just too damn painful. Monica decided to embrace this night with Cal. Her past, the present—it would all be waiting for her tomorrow.

He let go of her hand and pointed with his chin to the food cart. “Go see what treats I’ve got for you.”

She opened one chafing dish, then laughed. “Fried chicken?”

“You Americans seem to love it. After all, you’ve put that military colonel in charge of it.”

“Funny.” She moved on to the next dish. “Mashed potatoes.” The next were filled with cornbread and green beans and some kind of casserole. “Cal, do you have Vegas confused with the Deep South?”

He laughed. “No, but I told the chef to make something all Americans love to eat.” He paused. “We can send it back. We can order takeaway if you like, or go to a restaurant at the casino.”

He pulled his phone from his front pocket, but Monica grabbed his sleeve. “This is wonderful. I was only kidding.”

He seemed unsure of himself for a split second, then the old taunting grin returned. “We could hop a jet and go anywhere you want. You know how we trust-fund knobs are, any whim fulfilled.”

“Cal.” The atmosphere had changed. This had been a sweet gesture on his part, and Monica wasn’t sure what she’d said or done, but the self-deprecating humor had a hint of bitterness to it. Cal always poked fun at himself, in his own way. His arrogant statements weren’t meant to be taken seriously. But this jab, this one was real. She wasn’t sure how to fix it, so she glossed over it. “Please tell me there’s chocolate?”

Cal’s shoulders relaxed slightly. The tension that filled the air a moment ago disappeared. “Of course there is. Do I look like a fool? Wait, don’t answer that.” He moved behind her, slid his arms around her waist, and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Really, if you want something else—”

“This is like a fantasy. A picnic in the moonlight.” She turned and gave him a small reassuring kiss. Cal let her go and stepped back.

Monica handed him a plate and filled hers with some of everything, along with a chicken leg. “When we were little, Brynn and I used to fight over the chicken legs. I always wanted both, but my mother made us share.”

“What was she like, your mother?”

“Motherly.”

As Monica sat down, Cal took a seat across from her. Shaking out his napkin, he raised one brow. “We can talk about something else. There’s always the weather. Or sports. How do you like Chelsea’s chances this year?”

“Is that a soccer team or something?” Monica picked up her fork and took a bite of creamy mashed potatoes. Mmm, buttery. “This is delicious.”

Cal tutted. “Football, not soccer. You Americans. Do you still miss her?”

Although the day had been warm again, the evening air started to cool down. Even with the portable heaters, Monica shivered. “Every day. But I don’t want to talk about my mom any more than you want to talk about Babcock. It hurts.”

His gaze locked on hers. “Agreed.” He poured them each a glass of wine.

“What’s the best French wine you’ve ever tasted?” she asked.

“To be honest, I have a hard time telling a good cabernet from a bottle of plonk. I’m more of a lager man. I’d rather go to Stuttgart for Oktoberfest than French wine country, although it’s beautiful there.” Cal sat back, his eyes skimming over her.

Monica felt self-conscious when Cal watched her eat the chicken leg as daintily as she could manage. Covering her mouth with a napkin, she laughed. “Stop staring at me. You’re making me nervous.”

“It’s fun, making you blush. You’re comfortable being totally naked in front of me, but if I watch you eat, you get embarrassed.”

Monica froze for a moment as the truth hit her. She not only didn’t mind being naked in front of Cal, she loved it. Loved the way his eyes grew a deeper green and remained glued to her body, taking in her slightest movement. She felt sexy and alive. She wanted to feel that way again, right now.

She’d been chastising herself since they’d scuttled out of the office, and while it had been a stupid move—fucking in front of a picture window—it had felt incredible at the same time. The fear of getting caught and the feel of Cal buried deep inside her—it had been the best sex of her life. Carefree. Daring. She thought she’d put all that behind her, but Cal opened the door to her bad-girl ways. And she liked how he made her feel. So how was Monica supposed to mesh her old self with her life now?

God, she was tired of going around in circles, overthinking. She simply wanted to shut down her brain and feel again. Cal did that to her. And as scary as it was, Monica wanted it one more time. Just for tonight.

She threw her napkin on the table and glanced back at the French doors. “Is your butler coming back?” She wanted Cal to take her again, here in this setting, this garden.

“Not unless I tell him to, why?”

“Then I’m going for a swim.” Monica kicked off her shoes, then with exaggerated movements, she stripped out of her jacket.

That got Cal’s attention. He licked his lips as she held up one arm and unbuttoned her cuff. She repeated the movement with her other sleeve. When she reached up to unfasten her blouse, she paused. “Should I keep going?”

“If you don’t, I’ll do it for you,” Cal said.

Monica wagged her finger. “Uh, uh, uh. This is my show.” She turned her back to him, and with painstaking progress, undid one button at a time. Occasionally, she glanced over her shoulder and shot him a grin. When she was done, she clasped the edge of her blouse and eased it, ever so slightly, down her shoulder.

Cal’s eyes were fixed on her. He held his body motionless. “Don’t stop now.”

This was what she wanted. To captivate him. To be powerful and sexual and let herself go. She could do this with Cal.

She slipped the other side down the opposite shoulder, but not very far. Monica only revealed her upper back, then turning to the side, she shoved a hand through her hair and watched Cal’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

With a wiggle of her hips, she slipped the blouse from her shoulders and let it fall on the patio. Then raising her arms above her head, she undulated her torso. Monica stopped when his eyes met hers. She hadn’t done this in so long. Monica felt more at ease with Cal than any man she’d ever been with.