“It is.” Monica clicked off her desk lamp and walked to the door. “What happened to Allie’s dinner party? I thought your parents were supposed to be there.”

Cal huffed. “Pixie may be my mother, but Paolo is only ten years older than I am. He’s not even a proper stepfather. Never took me fishing, not once.” Though his tone was light, a hint of something darker colored his voice. She refused to ask him about it. Cal’s life wasn’t any of her business. “Besides, I told Allison I had plans with an old friend.”

She gazed at him before hitting the light switch. “We’re not old friends—we met once.”

Before she could walk out of the room, Cal grabbed her purse strap and gave it a pull. He used it to swing her around until she faced him. Through the open door, a soft glow from the hallway allowed her to barely see his face. He looked serious in the half-light, more predatory than ever.

Monica’s heart stuttered as he stepped closer. He was so much bigger than she remembered, his shoulders wider. Maybe she was misremembering their seven minutes in heaven. Maybe she’d built it up into something special when it was nothing more than a simple kiss.

But then Cal framed her face with his large hands, and she felt powerless to move as he lowered his head. She watched him descend toward her, then her eyes drifted closed. When he softly brushed her lips with his, it was all Monica could do not to give in. She wanted to open her mouth wider, stroke his tongue with her own. At his brief touch, heat pooled low in her belly. For a split second, Monica wished she was still the girl whose default was set to yes, because she missed this feeling, this rush of excitement. And she hadn’t been imagining things. Though Cal had barely touched her lips, the effect was potent. That kiss in the garden had been epic after all.

When Cal dropped his hands and took a step backward, Monica’s eyes fluttered open. “I remember snogging you that night, Monica, and touching you right here.” He reached out, and with a careful, light movement, drew his finger from the edge of her collarbone down to the center of her right breast. Even through the heavy fabric of her jacket, her nipple pebbled. “If that’s not friendly, what would you call it?”

At his mocking tone, desire flickered out, and humiliation took its place. He’d had her so easily, with barely a kiss. It took almost no effort on his part, and she was practically falling at his feet. She smacked his hand away. “I’d call it a mistake.” With hurried steps, she scampered to the outer office.

This time when she turned off the overhead lights, she made sure she stepped out of the suite and into the lighted hallway first. She didn’t want to be caught in the dark with him again—it fostered a false sense of intimacy.

Who was she kidding? Cal could have pulled that move in broad daylight and the outcome would have been the same—damp panties and limp-noodle legs.

Cal strolled out a couple seconds later. “Almost broke my toe in there,” he said cheerfully. “Fumbling around in the dark is more fun when you’re naked with a partner. Just a little tip for you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I want to fumble with someone.”

He didn’t offer a comeback, but followed her to the bank of elevators. “So, we’ll head to your place, then off for dinner. What do you fancy?”

Monica punched the down button. “We’re not going to my place.”

His eyes widened, and he looked momentarily bewildered. “Don’t you want to change?”

She glanced down at her pantsuit. “What is your issue with my outfit? I look fine.”

“You look like a missionary.”

“I’m not changing.” Not her clothes, not her stance on bad boys, not her rigorous self-control. She could white-knuckle her way through one night. She was not falling off the bad-boy wagon because he’d copped a feel. It was time to get a grip.

The commas on either side of Cal’s mouth deepened as his lips grew thinner. “Whatever you say. I am curious about something, though. In the office, you said what happened between us in the garden was a mistake. Is that how you really see it?”

“Absolutely.” And she’d made enough to know—some more egregious than others. Cal wasn’t the worst mistake she’d made, but getting felt up by a stranger at her dad’s wedding wasn’t her proudest moment.

“You think mistakes are failings, then? You’re wrong on that score.”

“Really? Please, enlighten me.” She punched the elevator button again, harder this time.

“‘Mistakes are the portals of discovery.’”

Monica tossed her head to displace a wisp of hair dangling on her forehead. “Life lessons by Cal Hughes. Let me get my notebook, Professor. I don’t want to miss a word.”

“Not me, James Joyce.”

That made her stop for a minute. Cal Hughes, quoting literary giants? Or he could be jerking her chain.

He must have read her expression. “Stunned, are you? Didn’t expect someone like me to know that?” Although his expression hadn’t changed and he still wore a tilted smile, his eyes hardened.

“You’re a big fan of Joyce?”

“Not really. I was fourteen and heard there were sexy parts in Ulysses, but by the time I slogged through it, I was too bored to care.”

Monica fought back a laugh. She didn’t know what to make of him. If he secretly wrote poetry on the side, she was a goner.

“Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“I think mistakes are missed opportunities. Being afraid to make a mistake is being afraid of life.” The elevator doors opened, and he gestured for her to enter first.

“Mechanic. Gambler. Philosopher. Any other talents?”

“Scores, darling.” His eyes were full of sexual heat. “Would you like me to elaborate?”

Crossing her arms, Monica shifted her glance to the closed doors. “Nope.” Yes. God, yes. She paused for a second. “And for your information, I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Hmm, I must have got it wrong then. From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to avoid me. And there’s only one reason for that.”

“You’re annoying?”

“Because you want to finish what we started, but that wouldn’t mesh with this rather dull, professional image you’ve created for yourself.” The bell dinged at the seventh floor, and the doors slid open. When two men and a woman climbed on board, Cal moved to the back of the car. He tugged on Monica’s sleeve, pulling her back with him and crowding her into the corner.

“Not true,” she whispered. So true. “I don’t want to finish anything with you.” Just standing next to him in this small space was a test of her self-restraint. She fought the urge to gravitate toward him and take another whiff of his fresh, earthy scent.

“Prove it,” he whispered back.

Monica tried to hold her tongue, but she liked having the last word too much. “I don’t have to prove anything to you,” she hissed. Fantastic argument. What’s next, Monica, the old I’m-rubber-you’re-glue line of defense?

Once they hit the lobby, everyone filed out ahead of them. “I’m not avoiding you, Cal. I’m busy.” She peered up at him. “And I don’t want to finish what we started five years ago. I barely remember it.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Monica.”

Monica was a fairly decent liar. As a teenager, she’d told a lot of whoppers, most of which never came back to bite her in the ass. A good thing, because Allie had a very long memory. “I’m not lying.”

“You are, actually. It’s adorable.” Cal kept pace with her to the entrance of the building. He held open the door and walked next to her as she crossed the lot to her car. “Look, I obviously make you uncomfortable. Probably because of your massive attraction to me. But I won’t force my company on you. Just drop me off at my villa, and we’ll call it a day.”

She came to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, held up her keychain, and pressed the fob. “I’m not uncomfortable, nor am I attracted. I’ll go to dinner with you, if you’ll just shut the hell up.”