He wouldn’t be able to go haring off on a moment’s notice, but so what? They wouldn’t live in each other’s pockets either, like Trevor and Allie. Not everyone had to. He and Monica were independent people. They didn’t have to get married or live in the same place all the bloody time. They could have their own lives, but still be committed to each other.

Yes, this could work. Cal congratulated himself on his sensible idea and fell asleep around three a.m.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, bright sunshine flooded the room. Monica sat on the end of the bed, pulling on a black stocking. The bed bouncing, that’s what had awakened him. Thought he was in the middle of an earthquake there for a minute. “What time is it?”

“It’s eight seventeen. I’m so late. My stupid phone died.”

Cal sniffed and threw back the covers. “I’ll have to drive you home. We left your car at your place.” Rubbing his eyes, he staggered to the closet and grabbed a set of clothes. He took them back to the bedroom and caught a glimpse at Monica’s bare thigh as he shoved his leg into a pair of ripped jeans. She stared at him as well.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re not going to wear underwear?”

“I thought time was of the essence. We need to get you home to change. Do you really want to have a talk about my lack of smalls right now?”

She shoved her feet into the sensible black pumps. “No. And you don’t have to take me anywhere. I’ve called a cab.”

“Nonsense. I’ll have you home faster. You can show me the back roads.” He slipped a T-shirt over his head and shoved his feet into a pair of ancient athletic trainers. “All ready.”

Monica finger-combed her hair and walked down the hall. “You men have it so easy.”

“No time for a diatribe on my sex,” he called after her. He picked up the bedside phone and dialed Mr. Lawson. “Have the car ready out front, would you, and cancel Miss Campbell’s taxi? We’re in something of a hurry.”

Monica fluttered back. “My purse, my bag.” She made a circuit of the room, stopping to check under the bed.

“You dropped them on the sofa last night.” He took her by the shoulders and shepherded her to the foyer. Her hair was a mess, she wore no makeup, and her clothes had been wadded up on the floor all night. She looked wonderful.

Cal darted into the lounge and grabbed her bags, then followed Monica out the front door and down the stone path. The Mustang waited for them, a valet at the ready, holding open the passenger door.

Cal grabbed a bill and shoved it in the man’s hand. “Ta.” He hopped behind the wheel, let Monica give him side-road directions, and sped ten miles over the speed limit the entire way.

When he arrived in the driveway, he killed the engine. “Go change. I’ll make you a cup of coffee, yeah?”

She turned to him, clutching her bag with both hands like it was a bloody good luck charm. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Monica, my love, why are you wasting precious time arguing? You need to fix that hair.”

Her hand flew to her head and patted it. “Great.” She climbed out of the car and ran inside the house.

Cal got out at a slower pace. Life would never be boring with Monica Campbell. Walking through the front door, he heard the shower running upstairs. He’d been inside her house only a few times, and it was every bit as sad and colorless as he remembered.

Striding to the kitchen, he found the tiny four-cup coffeepot. He opened a few cabinets. All empty, except for one that held paper plates, plastic glasses, and disposable travel cups with lids. It housed the coffee can and filters too, along with stir sticks and little packets of sugar.

As the coffee brewed, Cal checked all the other cabinets and drawers, finding only plastic utensils. Even Cal’s flat in London had proper cutlery. An expired carton of milk and two shriveled apples hid in the refrigerator. This entire house lacked permanency. She lived like a squatter. This was a place to sleep, like a hotel, except even hotels hung bad artwork on the walls.

Monica walked into the kitchen a few moments later. Today’s bland color: gray. Gray pantsuit, gray button-up blouse, gray shoes.

He poured a cup of coffee, doctored it with a packet of sugar, and handed it to her. “Here.”

Was the rest of the house as dismal as the first floor? Was the bedroom this tragic? He had to know. Without a word, Cal walked past Monica and charged up the stairs.

“Where are you going? Cal, what’s wrong with you?”

She dogged his steps as he peeked into the two small bedrooms on the second floor. A few unpacked moving boxes lined the walls, but the rooms were absent of furniture. Then he strode into the master bedroom.

It was equally as appalling. An unmade bed—sloppy, his girl—no headboard, just a mattress and box spring and plain white sheets. Blinds covered the windows, not curtains. There were no personal touches whatsoever. No books, no knickknacks, nothing that said Monica Campbell lived here.

“Cal, get out.”

He thrust his hands deep into his back pockets while his gaze spanned the room, and after taking everything in, settled on her. “I’ve seen hotels in Bolivia that have more personality than this. The clothes I get. I despise them, even though I understand them. But this?” He removed his hands and flung an arm outward. “You need pink pillows and pretty bedding and pictures of your family. Where’s a photo of your mother?”

“Get out of my room.” She set the cup down on a bedside table. She only had the one.

“Where’s your mum? I haven’t seen a picture of her or your sisters or your father in this entire house.”

“I haven’t had time to decorate. I keep telling you that.”

“I’m not talking about decorations. I don’t know a single woman who doesn’t put her own stamp on a place. Darling, no one’s too busy to prop a family photo on the dresser.”

She held up her hand. “Do not compare me to all the other women you know. You need to leave so I can go to work.”

“What do you imagine I’ll do here alone, steal your cache of paper plates?” Cal tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for this pathetic house. But really, the house was just a symbol—like her clothes, like her job. The only time Monica spoke of anything personal was after sex, when her impenetrable guard lowered ever so slightly. Occasionally, she’d share a story about her mother, about her childhood with Allie and Brynn. But even then, Monica never revealed more than morsels, little bits of herself doled out in tiny increments. She always left Cal eager for more, but the minute he asked a personal question, she’d clam up.

Monica Campbell bought hot-pink, fuzzy steering-wheel covers. That was frivolous. She wore frilly bloomers and bras that made his cock stir to attention just thinking about them. But they were hidden beneath her conservative suits. She’d dated Ryan What’s-his-tits, a bloke so utterly devoid of charm, even his own mother must loathe him. Cal would bet his trust fund the man had never given Monica the type of rough, raunchy sex she needed. Yet she’d stayed with him for a year.

Monica Campbell’s entire life was a well-constructed lie.

Cal walked past her to the closet, ignoring her sputtering. Surely she had to own something besides knickers, something that revealed her true nature.

He turned on the light. For a walk-in closet—even a small one—she had very few clothes. All suits, mostly trousers, in every shade of hideous. In the back hung three long dresses covered by plastic dry cleaner’s bags. For her charity galas, obviously.

“Cal.” Monica now tugged at his arm. “I’m serious. Get the hell out of my closet. Get out of my house.”

“Why? There’s nothing here, is there? Not one bit of the real you.” Cal had never been so angry in his entire life. A sensuous, funny woman lay beneath all that fucking gray. “Whatever the hell you’re wearing under that ugly suit, that’s the real you. What color is it today? Purple? Bright blue?”