“I probably don’t need chocolate cake.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, everyone needs cake. And I have a huge fluffy bed that needs to be broken in.”

“I think I’m broken. I can hardly move.”

“That’s because I’m so fucking awesome.” He continued to rub the backs of her knees, up her thighs, over her hips and belly. He took extra care when he got to her breasts, massaging the soft, textured towel over her nipples a few times. They beaded at the attention.

“I’m pretty sure they’re dry, Cal.”

“I do like to be thorough.” Cal motioned for Monica to turn around so he could dry her hair. She spun and flattened her hands against the wall. He squeezed the water out of the ends and patted at her scalp. When wet, her hair transformed into a much darker shade of blond, almost brown, but not quite. He kissed the top of her head and inhaled deeply. Her lavender shampoo mixed with the lemon scent surrounding them. Divine.

“You never answered me before,” she said. “Which do you like better, this place or your one-bedroom flat in London?”

He didn’t know why it mattered, but she had something on her mind. He didn’t have to see her face to know it—he could hear it in her voice. “This is nice, obviously. But the flat in London is fine too. I don’t get too worked up over accommodations.” He moved the towel over her shoulders, down her spine, and gave her ass a good rub.

“That’s because you’re used to staying in places like this. They don’t faze you anymore.”

Cal’s hands slowed. “Allie’s been married to Trevor for years now. Aren’t you used to places like this?”

“Not really. I grew up in an older neighborhood. Our house was falling apart, literally.”

Unsure how to proceed, Cal continued stroking her back. If he asked too many questions, she might stop talking. Yet this was really the first time she’d volunteered any personal information, so he couldn’t let it go. “Why is that? Couldn’t afford to fix it?”

“No. My mom’s medical bills were out of control. That’s why Allie and Trevor started the foundation, to help people like her.”

Cal finally understood her, a part of her anyway. Monica was a sensual person, with carnal appetites she tried hard to ignore. His poor darling must have a bitch of a time reconciling both sides of herself—the self-sacrificing philanthropist and the lustful thrill-seeker. And this dichotomy somehow tied in with her mother’s illness, although he wasn’t sure how, exactly. “Staying in places like this makes you feel guilty, doesn’t it?”

She didn’t say anything for a minute, and Cal thought she might change the subject. But then she swallowed. “I always feel guilty when I think about her.”

His hands stopped moving. “I feel that way about Babcock. By the end, she was unconscious most of the time. When she died…” He couldn’t even say it out loud, it was too monstrous.

“You were relieved?”

Cal dropped the towel. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his head in the crook of her shoulder. “Yes.”

“Me too,” she said. “She suffered for so damn long.”

Cal had been carrying that disgrace with him for months now. To hear Monica admit the same thing took away some of the shame. “It’s because we loved them, I suppose.”

“It still makes us awful people.”

He nodded. “Perhaps.”

Monica shrugged her shoulder. Cal took the hint and moved back. She cleared her throat. “I should be getting home.”

“Absolutely.” His carefree tone sounded strained, but he carried on. “After dessert. You’re not going to make me eat chocolate cake alone, are you?” He didn’t wait for her to argue again, but simply left the shower and walked out of the room.

* * *

Monica watched Cal walk away. And for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t feel alone.

Monica’s mom had been sick for years, but when Allie talked about Trisha Campbell, she spoke only of the good times. Brynn would occasionally bring up a particular event, like the year all three girls got bikes for Christmas. Allie had received a purple ten-speed that made Monica so jealous, she’d stomped her foot and wrote a letter to Santa that morning, demanding an upgrade.

Nearly every memory Monica had of her mother was tainted by guilt and remorse—about past mistakes, about being resentful when her mom had been too sick to pay attention to any of them. But most of all, about feeling relieved when her mother slipped away. The years of suffering were finally over. And Monica was so glad.

While her family cried their eyes out, Monica remained dry-eyed. She realized, somewhere in the back of her brain, that her reaction wasn’t normal—that she was a horrible person. That’s when Monica’s life had spun out of control, which left her feeling even worse.

Allie was right—Monica rarely mentioned Trisha Campbell, usually left the room if her sisters started reminiscing. She rarely discussed her mother with Evan. Yet for some reason, she’d opened up to Cal.

And Cal, of all people, understood.

Monica stepped out of the shower and grabbed the hair dryer from beneath the countertop. Cal’s leather shaving bag sat next to the sink. She unzipped it, pulling out his brush. Mason Pearson. Jeez, even his man accessories were high-end.

She needed to get out of here, go home and hide under the covers for a while. She’d opened herself up to Cal, and he’d seen too much. Monica didn’t feel vulnerable baring her body, but she’d just revealed a piece of her soul, and that frightened her.

First she dried her hair, then rubbed at the faint mascara smudges beneath her eyes. She grabbed the robe hanging next to the door and took a deep whiff. Cal. The lemon shower gel mixed with his woodsy scent. She shrugged into it and cinched the belt.

She was going to march into that bedroom and get firm with him. She needed to go home, back to her life, where she didn’t get banged doggie-style in her office, where she didn’t share her deepest secrets. With her head high, she opened the bathroom door.

But then she saw him, lying in the middle of the deep red sheets, holding an enormous piece of chocolate cake and two forks. And he was still buck-ass naked.

That lopsided grin melted her determination. Every single bit of it.

He patted the space next to him. “I’ll hold the cake, you run and jump.” He lifted the plate in the air and nodded encouragingly.

Letting out a laugh, Monica ran four feet and belly flopped onto the bed. He was correct yet again. Soft and inviting, the mattress cradled her. Like a marshmallow. She felt as if she might sink right down into it.

“See, what’d I tell you?” he asked.

“You’re annoyingly cocky. If I admit you’re right, you’ll become insufferable.”

“I’d never be insufferable. I’m far too charming.”

“See? Cocky.” She took the fork he offered and cut a tiny piece of cake. Cal didn’t take his eyes from her mouth as she ate it. “Oh God. This is so good.”

“I told you so. I’m always right. It should get boring, but it never does.” He crossed the space dividing them and licked the corner of her mouth. “You missed a crumb. And I have an idea about this cake. But first, you’ll have to take off the robe.”

Chapter 17

The next four weeks passed by in a blur. Monica hadn’t heard a word from Allie. And it bothered her. She didn’t feel good about the way they’d left things. Monica had every right to be angry at Allie’s constant interference, but she could have handled things differently. Somehow. She could have kept a hold on her temper, for starters.

At the office, Monica worked nonstop on the gala, shored up donors and sponsors, and tackled every crisis that popped up. She had two run-ins with Marcus Stanford, reiterating her position on his wife’s charity, and explained, for the millionth time, why the staff weren’t there to wait on him, type his letters, or photocopy his shit. But she said it nicely and with a smile.