“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Monica said. “If we have no venue, we have no gala. No gala means we can’t offer more than a handful of grants next year.” Monica began gathering up all the paperclips on her desk.

“We need to get busy,” Allie said. “We have to cancel all the sponsors, the vendors, call all the attendees and the press. This is a disaster.”

What a shitty day—first her nuclear blowout with Cal, and now this. Monica had put too much of herself into this gala—she couldn’t just give up. She dropped the paperclips back on the desk. “You know what? We’re not canceling that gala. Not without trying to find another location. I’ve worked too damn hard to bring in donations. If we don’t pull this off, we’ll be out in the cold.”

When a knock sounded at the door, both Monica and Allie turned toward it. Stella tiptoed into the room, bearing two cups and a carafe of coffee. “Sorry to interrupt. Who needs caffeine?” She set the cups on the desk. Her gaze bounced between Monica and Allie. “So are we canceling?”

“Not yet.” Monica glanced at Allie as she said it.

“I’ve called an emergency board meeting for tomorrow to explain the situation,” Allie said. “Even if we do find an alternative venue, less than two weeks isn’t long enough to replan this event.”

“I disagree. I’m up to the task. Are you?”

“Fine, I’m in, but only if we find a suitable replacement site and the board agrees. But I have to tell you, Mon, I don’t think it’s going to happen. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

“Have you talked to the hotel manager?” Monica poured herself a cup of coffee and added sugar. It was a three-pack kind of morning. “Does he have any rooms available?”

Allie shook her head. “No, he’s all booked up. I even had Trevor try and convince him, but it was a no-go.”

Monica turned to Stella. “Tell the staff to stop what they’re doing and call every hotel, every casino. Think outside the box on this one—museums, the Cactus Garden. Try everywhere and anywhere.”

“You got it, honey.” She took the coffeepot and marched out of the office.

Monica dropped her purse on the floor. “Are you going to stay and help, or do you need to get home?”

“I’ll stay. We should divide locations alphabetically. Do we have a white board?”

There weren’t any apologies, no postmortems on their fight. But working together on this gala thing, maybe they could call a truce. At least for now.

Monica took another sip of coffee. It was going to be one long-ass day.

* * *

Cal finally calmed down. It had taken an hour-long drive in the desert to accomplish it, but the anger he’d felt upon leaving Monica’s house dissipated.

She’d said some ugly things to him—mostly true—and kicked his ass to the curb…which he deserved.

Monica claimed he had no purpose in life, that he was running from himself, that he couldn’t confront things head-on. She was partly right.

Cal’s purpose had been cars and motors. Starting from the bottom up, he enjoyed repairing damaged machinery, bringing it back to life. He was good at it, loved it. But it didn’t consume him the way it used to.

And he wasn’t running from himself either, not exactly. He just didn’t feel at home anywhere, a misfit. Might as well have a bit of travel, see new and interesting things. But now, it sounded rather dismal. Lonely.

That bit about confronting things head-on, well, Monica was dead wrong on that score. Cal had confronted her just this morning, face to bloody face, and they’d wound up in a stonking row. Tackling it that way had been a stupid move, admittedly. Direct and honest didn’t work with Monica—she was too wrapped up in her own lies. Not that she’d ever admit it. Predictably, she’d gotten her hackles up. He couldn’t blame her, the way he’d carried on. But seeing Monica in that house, with her paper plates and her bare walls, depressed the hell out of him. No, it enraged him.

At night, he held Monica in his arms—the woman who made him smile and challenged him and asked a million questions about the world. Then every morning that woman disappeared in a puff of smoke, and Miss Prim took her place. And when Monica had become less communicative in the last week, Cal felt as though she were shutting him out.

Something or someone had forced her into the role of a drab moth. She was anything but. Monica Campbell was bright colors and loud music, and yes, she was caring and considerate too, but so terribly unhappy. He didn’t know whether it was because Allie peeked over her shoulder every five minutes or that the foundation reminded Monica of her mother—but he wanted to fix it.

Then she’d accused him of treating her like one of his battered cars. Again, she had a point. When he’d seen her that first day at Trevor’s house, Cal’s only thought had been restoring the bright, bubbly girl he’d kissed five years ago. Now Cal was invested; he’d grown to care about Monica. She wasn’t just a project.

She didn’t owe him any explanations, not really. It was her life to waste, and even so, he wanted to be part of it. Now Cal would be lucky if she ever talked to him again.

He looked down at the gift bag in his hand. She definitely couldn’t talk to him if she didn’t have a phone. So he’d bought her an upgraded one. With a bright pink case.

As he continued stalking to his car, the midmorning sun peeked over his shoulder. When he reached the Mustang, Cal’s own phone vibrated against his hip. Hoping it was Monica, he glanced at the screen with a sigh. “What is it, Paolo?”

“You have not spoken to Pix,” he said.

Monica’s words came back to him. No, Cal wasn’t in a hurry to see Pix—there really wasn’t anything left to say. His mum could live her life, and he’d live his. So this is what you call living, mate? Fighting with the few people you care about? But this wasn’t about Cal and his life, this was about Pixie abandoning Babcock.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do, Paolo. Pixie and I had a row.”

“And?”

He couldn’t do it. Not today. Cal couldn’t stand any more confrontations. He wanted to lose himself in the Mustang’s transmission. Working on cars had always been Cal’s therapy. He needed it today, before the women in his life sent him ’round the bend.

* * *

Monica finished her fourth cup of coffee. While it kept her alert, it didn’t help her nerves. Allie made her batty. She insisted on sharing Monica’s desk, and they’d been calling every suitable spot for hours now, with zero results.

Standing, Monica stretched her arms over her head. “I need a break. Ten minutes.”

Allie crossed off another hotel. “We’re not going to find a place on such short notice. It’s never going to work.”

“I like your optimism.” Monica grabbed her coffee cup and left the office. It had been like that most of the day—Allie complaining, insisting they cancel the gala. It gave Monica a headache.

Stella found her in the break room, a gift bag in her hand. “This just came for you.”

Another gift from Ryan? She hoped to hell not. Monica took the bag and pulled out a bright pink phone and a note.

I’m an asshole.

She smiled at that. This was Cal’s apology.

He’d been way out of line this morning. She’d said some really hurtful things to him too. Monica had been on the defensive. He claimed she was living a lie. Was he wrong? She still couldn’t merge the two separate sides of herself—maybe she never would. But that wasn’t the same as living a lie.

Monica gazed down at the brown pantsuit she’d changed into after he’d left that morning. So maybe she had gone overboard when she’d done a complete one-eighty—she had her reasons. And she probably didn’t need to look like a pilgrim to do her job well. Fair enough.

She couldn’t think about it right now though. She had to figure this gala thing out, ASAP. After refilling her cup, Monica made her way back to her office.