But if she thought for a second he cared about her… Of course he cared about her, in his own way, and she cared about him—they were friends with bennies. It didn’t go any deeper. Nor did it give him the right to come in here and start insulting her, questioning her.
Giving herself one last glance in the mirror, Monica took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door. No sign of Cal. She should be relieved he wasn’t there, forcing her to talk, but the empty room made Monica feel more alone than she had in weeks. With Cal, the piercing isolation left her. But now it flooded back in spades.
Their argument felt final, somehow. Maybe that was for the best. She and Cal wanted different things out of life. Eyes wide open, remember? Yeah, Monica remembered.
She changed clothes before trotting down the steps and grabbing her bags. The house seemed so quiet, the silence hurt her ears. She dug out her keys and hurried to the garage. Monica didn’t have time to examine her life right now, even if she wanted to. She was running almost three hours late.
On the drive, she hit rush hour, and as she sat in traffic, automatically reached for her coffee cup. Shit. She’d left it on the nightstand when she and Cal were in the middle of their knock-down drag-out.
Right before they’d had sex. Angry sex. Monica closed her eyes and remembered the look on his face when he’d told her to say his name. There had been a harsh, cold gleam in his green eyes. His mouth thinned into a firm line, his jaw clamped down tight. He’d been pissed off and commanding. It had turned her on. Cal barking orders with that grumbly voice had made her wet. Of course, when he was playful and gave her a crooked smile—that revved her up too.
It dawned on Monica that she’d just made a car analogy. Terrific.
Forty minutes later, she arrived. Pulling into the parking lot, Monica found a spot in the back row. She hustled into the building and when she stepped into the main office, every head turned in her direction.
“So I’m late one morning.”
They continued to stare.
“Was it my turn for doughnuts or something?” Monica set her computer bag down on Carmen’s desk. “Seriously, what’s going on?” she whispered.
“Where have you been?” Carmen hissed.
Stella burst out of the hallway and rushed toward her. She cast her steely gaze over everyone. “Move on with your lives, people.” As one, the staff turned away, even Carmen.
“The shit’s hit the fan, kid,” Stella said.
“What’s happened?”
Rubbing her forehead, Stella sighed long and deep. “Allie’s waiting in your office. The ballroom flooded last night. We have no venue for the gala.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Monica hauled ass down the hall and nearly ran into Jules coming out of the break room.
“Run for your life,” she said. “Allie’s in a rage. On the drive over, she wore this hideous, frightening smile. I nearly shit a brick just sitting next to her.”
“I’ll handle it. Thanks, Jules.”
Stella stayed on her heels. “I’ll interrupt in ten minutes with a cup of coffee. Good luck.”
Monica hadn’t seen Allie in weeks. This was the worst possible circumstance for a reunion. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she opened the door to find Allie standing in front of the window. “Hey, Al. I just heard the news.” She walked across the room and tossed her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk.
“I tried to call you six times last night. Were you too busy with Cal to answer your phone?” Allie didn’t turn around.
“My phone died, sorry. And my personal life is still off limits. Now give me the details.”
“There’s not much to tell. The ballroom flooded, there’s extensive damage. They don’t have anything else available, and we’re going to have to cancel the gala.” Allie spun around, her eyes accusatory. “If you don’t want to talk about Cal, let’s discuss the foundation, shall we?” She tossed a folder on top of Monica’s desk.
The file she had been compiling on international grants and cost projections for medical equipment. The same file she’d shown Trevor. “Were you rifling through my desk?”
“It belongs to the foundation,” Allie said. So snotty. So superior. Always playing the big sister. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.
All Monica’s self-recriminations over the past few weeks blew away. This was why she’d been so angry. This right here—Allie’s sanctimonious, I’m-so-fucking-perfect attitude.
Fury, hot and sharp, lanced through her. She ripped open the middle drawer, shoved her hands inside, and started pulling out lip gloss, pencils, paperclips, and dropped them on top of the folder. “Here. Take these too. All of this crap belongs to the foundation.” She found a stray peppermint. “And don’t forget this.” Then Monica grabbed her purse and upended it, dumping everything until the bag was empty. “I have a few tampons, some loose change.” She threw her wallet at Allie, who caught it deftly in her right hand. “Receipts, my credit cards. Hey, how about I cc you on my bank statements?”
Allie tossed the wallet on the desk. “While you’re doing pointless research, we have a gala to cancel. But I’m so happy you were having a great time with Cal last night.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have a life. I should be on call 24-7 in case the ballroom floods. I should have anticipated that.”
Allie nodded at the green file, peeking out from under the debris. “What about that? What were you planning on doing with all that third-world grant stuff?”
“Does it matter?” Monica plucked it out and dropped the folder in the trash can. “There.”
“What were you planning on doing with it?” Allie repeated.
“I thought the foundation could start branching out, make a bigger impact, have an international presence.”
“We’re not in this to make a name for ourselves. We’re in this to help people.”
“That equipment and training could help people, Allie. And you still don’t understand—foundation work is a competitive sport. If we don’t start making some big moves, we’ll get left behind.”
Allie’s brows dipped together. “You make fund-raising sound mercenary.”
Monica started cramming stuff back in her purse. “It is. For every dollar we get, some other charity goes hungry. It’s a cutthroat business. Donations have risen by seven percent this year. I worked to make that happen.”
In the last two years under Monica’s leadership, the foundation had grown. She’d added events and luncheons. She’d put together packets and presentations to get larger donors involved. Last year, they’d had their first walk-a-thon, and next year she wanted to add a bike race. It didn’t bring in very much money, but it upped their profile in the community, which was vital for survival.
Allie sat in the guest chair and crossed her legs. “You know how much money it takes for projects like that?”
“Yes,” Monica snapped. “I know exactly how much. I did a shit ton of research on it.”
“That’s not our vision,” Allie said. “We help individuals pay for treatment. That’s our purpose.”
Allie kept using “our” and “we” as if Monica had any say in the matter. She didn’t. Allie might include her in fund-raising minutiae, but Monica had no voice. “Maybe we should change our vision.”
“Monica, you probably don’t remember when Mom needed that experimental treatment—you were too young.”
“I was fifteen, Allie. I remember.”
“Dad went ass deep into debt to pay for it.”
“I know that too.” In fact, the board had hired a marketing team who had come up with brochures and ads that featured Trisha Campbell’s story, distilling their mom’s beautiful life into a thirty-second sound bite—turning her from a wife and mother into nothing more than a statistic. Monica wanted to celebrate her mother’s life, not grieve her death repeatedly. Allie always did this, made it seem like she was the only one who remembered what their mother had gone through. But Monica and Brynn had been there too.