“I shouldn’t have let Father keep me away from Jules. I’m quite mad about her, you know.”

“You’re not going to start crying like a little girl, are you?” Jules’s voice sounded behind him. He turned to find her walking toward him, two cups of coffee in her hands. She gave one to Cal and one to her mother. “I’ll go get another.” She rubbed Cal’s arm. “And I love you too, you giant wanker.”

Paolo’s pleas replayed in his mind. Seeing his father look so ill, thinking about Babcock—he should really make things right with his mum. Cal nodded to Tara and, excusing himself, walked down the hallway. He called Pixie and filled her in, giving her the details of George’s condition.

“Your father is a very angry man, Cal. That’s bad for the heart. And he ate too many sausages. That will do it to you, which is why I never let Paolo eat red meat.”

“Sausages are pork.”

“Isn’t that red meat? Ham is pink, surely. What about you, are you all right, darling?”

“I’m fine, Mum.”

“Please give Jules a hug for me. I’m terribly sorry the two of you are going through this, and you have my deepest sympathies.” She sounded like a greeting card, but Cal knew it was her attempt at showing concern.

“Will do. I love you, Mum.”

“And I, you. Call me if you need anything at all. Anything, Calum, I’m quite serious.” He didn’t know what she could possibly do, but at least she made an effort.

He felt better, having made his peace with her. Now if he could make things right with Monica. He missed her terribly, but what was he meant to do? Despite her wild, impulsive nature, Monica Campbell was a forever kind of woman, and Cal didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep.

Chapter 22

Workers and movers and caterers swarmed through the garden. They nearly careened into one another as they furnished three tents, strung thousands of lights, hammered on a dais for the string quartet. The gala would be much less formal than the event Allie had originally planned. Monica couldn’t believe they’d pulled it off in less than two weeks. So why couldn’t she muster some sort of pride or satisfaction?

Monica ran a hand over her tired eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping. She’d been living at the mansion, not only because it was convenient, but because she didn’t want to lie in her own bed. The last time she used it, she’d been with Cal. He seemed to be all she could think about. Her days were miserable, her nights unbearable. Monica had made a mistake, breaking it off with him. A terrible, painful mistake.

“Things are coming together.” Allie stood next to her, the ever-present binder in her arms. She’d morphed into a bossy, busty general, ordering everyone around the garden and making sure all would be perfect for the big night. She was totally in her element.

“Yep,” Monica said. “Looking good.”

Allie gazed at Monica’s profile, but Monica avoided eye contact. Seeing her sister’s compassion only made her feel worse.

“Mon, I say this with love—you look like shit.”

“Thank you,” she said, keeping her eyes on the men carefully threading lights through the rosebushes. “And I say this with all due respect—fuck off.”

“Still surly, I see. Do you have a dress yet?”

She turned to Allie. “Can you just beat me to death with that binder so we don’t have to have this conversation again? I’m wearing something from last year. It’s fine.”

Instead of snapping a retort, she rubbed Monica’s shoulder. That damn compassion again. “Go get some rest, Mon. We have this thing under control.”

Monica cleared her throat and looked away. She couldn’t rest, and yet, she was exhausted. Not just from all the work or the sleepless nights—she was exhausted from grief. How was she supposed to get over Calum Hughes? The man had driven back into her life with that shitty Mustang. He’d told her about cities she’d never heard of, he’d called her out on her bullshit, and he’d made love to her like it meant something. Now Monica was nothing more than a puddle of useless, gooey sorrow.

“Seriously,” Al said. “Go take a break.”

Monica nodded and dodged men moving tables as she made her way to the house. Pandemonium ruled in here too, with florists and cleaners bustling through the hallways.

She took the stairs two at a time. No one was allowed up here—Trevor’s orders. He was very put out with strangers fucking up his routine. His words. Repeated often.

Monica didn’t want to go back to her guest room. She’d spent hours on that bed, tossing and turning, miserable without Cal.

She darted into the salon instead. It was her favorite part of the house and overlooked the garden. She stood at the window, watching everyone come and go. And felt completely alone.

When the door opened, Monica turned to see Trevor enter. A pained look crossed his face as he glanced at her. He advanced farther into the room and withdrew a handkerchief from his jacket’s inner pocket. “Here. Mop up.”

Monica touched her cheek. Shit. She’d been crying again. When was this going to stop? She used to be so strong. Closed off. Maybe, but closed off was a lot less humiliating than this. “Thanks.”

Trevor stalked to the booze cart and poured two measures of alcohol. As she sniffled and wiped her eyes, he walked back and handed her a tumbler. “Drink that.” He sank down on the sofa and sipped his own.

“What is it?”

“Brandy. Now, what’s got you all wobbly?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.” She took a sip, and it went down smooth. “Is this old?”

“Older than you and I put together. Now talk. Or you’ll force me to fetch Allison, and neither one of us wants that. She’ll smother you, and she’ll put me to work.”

Monica shuffled to the opposite tufted Chesterfield and flopped down. “I’m just…you know.” She shrugged.

“Ah, of course. Now it’s all so clear.”

She took another sip, enjoying the alcohol scorching a path down her throat. “Cal.”

“Quite.”

“I love him. Like, head-over-ass love.”

“Mmm. My condolences.”

She glanced at him, took in his tailored suit, the blue silk tie. He and Cal couldn’t be more different. “I broke it off with him.”

“Yes, Allie said as much.”

She sipped her brandy and began to loosen up. She hadn’t been eating, and the alcohol hit her quickly.

“Does he love you?” Trevor gazed at her through cool gray eyes, studied her like she was one of his silver saltshakers in the glass case downstairs—with impersonal, mild interest.

“I know he cares about me. Or he did. But I haven’t heard from him in days.”

“Cal had a rather unconventional upbringing.”

“I know that.”

He raised one brow. “Do you? Then you know his father’s never shown an ounce of affection. Pixie is…well, Pixie. Anything that doesn’t affect her directly doesn’t hold her attention for long. Cal was mostly left to his own devices.”

“He had Babcock.”

“Know about her, do you?” He paused with his glass halfway to his lips.

“Yeah. He was with her until the end. He’s a good guy. But he doesn’t stick around.”

“And you want what, true love conquering all”—he motioned with one finger—“happily ever after, and all that rubbish?”

Monica leaned forward. “Watch yourself. You sound a little cynical there, Trev. Since you’re married to my sister, that’s not reassuring.”

“I’m cynical about everyone else, never Allison.” His eyes turned to ice. “She’s a fucking miraculous aberration. But we’re not talking about her. We’re talking about you. What if Cal can’t promise forever? You’re obviously miserable without him. But you’ve been miserable for years, so what else is new?”

She opened her mouth to protest, but what for? “I’m quitting the foundation.” She swallowed the rest of the brandy in one gulp and began coughing as Trevor watched.

“Good,” he said, once she finally stopped. “I’m not one to give advice, and God knows I’m not one to take it, but that job is not right for you. You and Allison could use some distance.” He stood, drained his glass, and rebuttoned his jacket. “I guess you can make up your own mind about Cal, but he did stress that he’d be back.”