“What?”

“When he left for L.A., he said, if anyone asks, I’m coming back. Perhaps that was meant for you. You’ve always been an all-or-nothing person. Maybe there’s room in your life for a little compromise?” He strode to the door and left her sitting alone.

Compromise. Balance. Yeah, she could use some of that. And if she was this miserable without Cal, maybe she could take him on his own terms. Seeing him in intervals…maybe that would be enough. She could make it be enough.

* * *

Cal threw down the wrench and wiped his hands on a plush white rag—a monogrammed rag that used to be a hand towel in its former life. In the last few days, he’d performed tune-ups and changed the oil in the Bentley, the Rolls, the Mercedes coupe, and the Range Rover. There was nothing left for him to do. Not a bloody thing—unless he wanted to tear each car apart and rebuild them, piece by piece. It might very well come to that. He’d never been so…not bored. Restless? Agitated? Yes, all those things, but the root cause felt more like hopelessness.

Cal had become a shell of a person, walking around this vast, stupid estate—listless, with nothing to do but think. All the sunshine, the mild weather—it should have recharged him. Instead, it had the opposite effect.

He bent down and shut the toolbox—if one could call it that. After his father came home, Cal had gone out and bought the basics. George didn’t own so much as a screwdriver, let alone a torque wrench. Cars were Cal’s therapy, but unfortunately, even that wasn’t working right now. But really, what else was there? Play tennis? Swim? Sun himself by the pool? How did Jules stand it out here? Los Angeles held no appeal for him. At least in Vegas he could buy his way into a game of poker or work on the Mustang.

And be close to Monica.

Right. That. She was the reason this horrible, morose feeling had taken him over. How he missed her. Her smile, her scent, her plump upper lip.

Shit. He’d made a pact with himself. No thinking about Monica. No sense in dwelling on what he couldn’t have.

Cal walked out of the garage and stared up at the sky, where white clouds resembling cotton wool drifted to the east. Lowering his head, he glanced at the vibrant garden Tara had planted at the back of the house. Gardens reminded him of Monica. Cal ground his teeth. God, if only he could think about something else. Anything else. But memories of her—her soft, pale skin, her lavender-scented hair, her infectious laughter—flooded his brain every other goddamned minute.

Grabbing the keys to the Range Rover, he stalked back to the garage. He needed to get out. Go for a drive. Somewhere. Anywhere. He simply couldn’t stay locked up one more minute.

Cal started the engine and circled ’round to the front of the house. His father got a little better day by day. He’d be able to go back to work in a few weeks. Cal would be free then. Able to jet off to Budapest or spend the winter in Key West.

Oh, who was he kidding? There was only one place Cal wanted to visit. Visit. That was the problem. Monica wanted something much more permanent than the occasional meet up. She didn’t want him on a part-time basis. She’d made that clear. So why didn’t his brain get the message?

When his phone vibrated, Cal’s heart began to pound. It did every bloody time, and it was never her. He glanced at the screen. His father. Again.

“Yes?”

“Come upstairs.” Then he rang off. No explanation. He didn’t ask; he commanded. And Cal obeyed. He didn’t want to be the one to send the old man back to hospital.

Slamming the car in reverse, he drove to the garage and climbed out. He was trapped here. Like an animal in a zoo. Like Monica in her office.

Cal rubbed the bridge of his nose. He really needed to think about something else. A ’72 Iso Fidia—a car he’d dreamed about since he was sixteen. He could dwell on that rather than Monica’s voice and her fuzzy steering-wheel cover, and the way she made him breathless every time she walked into a room. So stop already, you wanker. If only it were that easy.

Cal strode inside the house. The air felt cool and smelled a bit stale. He took the curving stairway to the second floor and down the long, wide hall to his father’s bedroom. George had been ensconced in there for nearly two weeks and was chomping at the bit to get back to work.

The household had descended into chaos when George first got home. Cal had caught him on three separate occasions looking over stock profiles. The man couldn’t stop himself, and as a result, his blood pressure was still far too high. But the old man eventually made a bargain with Cal. George could talk to his secretary for ten minutes each day, if he agreed to stop disrupting the staff’s schedule and quit hounding Tara about every domestic decision. That seemed to do the trick.

Cal stood in the doorway. “You rang?”

George waved him in. “Yes, come. Sit. I want to show you something, and I think you’ll be pleased.”

Doubtful. George held out a folder, his expression rather smug.

“What is it?” Cal asked.

“I said sit down. Read it for yourself. Your mother did teach you how to do that much, didn’t she?”

Suppressing a sigh, Cal moved to a bedside chair and lowered himself. He stretched out his legs and crossed one boot over the other. Then he snatched the folder and skimmed the first page. Irritated, he lifted his gaze to his father and shook his head. “No. This is not happening.”

“You haven’t even read the bloody thing.”

“I don’t want to be in your will. Give it all to Tara and Jules.” He tossed the file on his father’s legs.

The nurse, dressed in plain blue scrubs, walked into the room. “Time to take your vitals,” she said in a singsong voice.

“Woman, can you not see that I’m busy right now? Come back later.”

This one was older and less nervous than the previous five. She ignored the old man by grabbing his wrist and studying her watch. George tried to pull out of her grasp, but she held on tight.

He snarled at her, then turned his focus back to Cal. “Look, I can admit when I’m wrong. Fortunately, it doesn’t happen often. But you’ve been here for Tara and Juliette, and I’d like to show my appreciation. It’s merely a token.”

“Send me a fruit basket. I don’t need your money, and I don’t want it.”

George rolled his eyes, and as the nurse attempted to wrap the blood pressure cuff around his arm, he slapped her hand. “Get away from me. I’m trying to have a conversation here.”

Cal glanced up at her and smiled. “Can you give us five?”

She shot George a hateful glance. “I’ll give you ten.” She marched out of the room, mumbling under her breath.

“Making friends wherever you go,” Cal said.

“I pay people. I don’t need friends. So what are you going to do with yourself after all this?”

“I don’t know, really.” Without Monica, Cal felt worse than when he’d stayed in Cairns, puttering around the beach all day. He felt rudderless. Lost without her.

“You could stay in California,” George said. “It’s not too bad, you know. Perhaps we could find something useful for you to do, rather than play with cars all day.”

When Cal was eighteen, he would have loved to hear that sentiment—if not those exact words—from his father. But Cal had made his own way in the world, was respected in his field. The old man might not understand that, but it didn’t matter. Calum knew who he was. “No thanks. I’m glad you’re feeling better, Father.” Still pale, George appeared older and frailer than his years. That disapproving man from Cal’s memories had now become less of an ogre and more human.

“Suit yourself. I was only trying to do the right thing. Now take this file on your way out.”

Cal left the room, tipping his head to the nurse in the hallway. Downstairs in the pink floral living room, he found Jules.