Take Your Time (A Boston Love Story Book 4)

by Julie Johnson

  “But I thought your family…” He trails off, probably not wanting to say something offensive, so I fill in the blanks for him.

  “Yes, the Sinclairs are loaded.” I laugh bitterly. “Or, we were. Six months ago, things changed.”

  Luca waits for me to continue, eyes fixed on my face.

  “My brother, Duncan, came to me with a big business proposition. He said it wasn’t a loan — it was an opportunity for me to double the money in my trust fund by becoming a founding investor in his new company. Getting in on the ground floor.” I force out another laugh, because if I don’t, I’m afraid I might cry. “A foolproof plan.”

  “One guess — it wasn’t foolproof.”

  “Of course not.” I sigh. “This isn’t the first time Duncan’s gotten himself in financial trouble. His last three startups have failed within a year of fundraising. The three before that never made it past the brainstorming stage, they were so fundamentally useless. But when Duncan gets an idea — Underwear with pockets! A reality TV show starring famous Instagram cats! A weekly podcast featuring only orca whale calls! — there’s no way to talk him out of it. He’s a one-man wrecking ball without an off-switch.”

  “And you thought it was a good idea to give him your money because…?” Luca asks point blank, never one to mince words.

  “Are you insane? I didn’t give him the money. I’m not a complete idiot.” My lips press into a frown. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about my parents.”

  Luca’s brows lift. “They gave him a loan?”

  “For all intents and purposes, they wrote him a blank check. And, trust me, he used it. Quickly.”

  “Not the smartest move given his track record — no offense to your parents.”

  “They rarely move in any manner resembling smart where Duncan is concerned. No matter how many times he screws up, they can’t see it. Not after…” I trail off.

  After they lost Mimi.

  I shrug. “Duncan is the darling golden boy. The favorite.”

  Luca stares at me for a beat, sensing my evasion but not calling me out on it. “What’s that make you?”

  I hesitate, then sigh. “The eternal runner-up.”

  His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t comment.

  “Anyway, after Duncan blew through his trust fund, followed by most of the family funds… it wasn’t long before I got the call.” I mimic my mother’s breathy tones. “Lila, darling, you know your father and I are out of the country on business. We just need a small loan to get by until we get things back on track…” I fold my hands together to keep from hitting something. “Just like that, poof goes my trust fund, and in the blink of an eye I’m a cliché — a washed up socialite with zero useful life skills and zero dollars in her bank account.”

  “You gave them everything?” he asks, tone laced with surprise.

  I nod. “Essentially.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re my parents,” I say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What was I going to do, let them starve? Let the bank take their house when they couldn’t pay their bills?”

  “Some people probably would’ve.” His eyes scan my face, trying to figure me out. “Most would’ve at least given it some thought. Especially if they’ve always felt like a runner up when it comes to parental affection.”

  Ouch.

  For some reason, hearing him use those terms stings more than when I say them myself. I suck in a breath and steady my shoulders.

  “I guess…” My voice is nearly inaudible. “When people I love are in trouble, I don’t need to give it any thought. I do whatever I can to help, and figure out the rest later.”

  Luca’s gaze is moving across my face again, making me uncomfortable with his intense scrutiny. I drop my eyes to my plate.

  “Not just great hair and high cheekbones,” he murmurs, so softly I’m sure he didn’t mean for me to hear him.

  I glance up sharply. “What did you just say?”

  He’s silent.

  “Luca,” I prompt.

  “Babe.”

  “What did I say about calling me that?”

  “You say a lot of shit, can’t be required to remember all of it.”

  Rude!

  Luca’s lips twitch. “I wasn’t insulting you, so wipe that look off your face.”

  “What look? I don’t have a look.”

  “You’ve definitely got a look. Snotty one, too.”

  I force my features into a menacing scowl and my voice into an artificially sweet tone. “Is this one preferable?”

  “Hate to break it to you, but you’re pretty when you’re pissed.”

  I suck in a breath.

  He half-smiles as he pushes his empty plate away and leans back on his stool. “In my experience, women who look like you do, with that bouncy fuckin’ hair, and those legs that go on for miles, and that peaches ’n’ cream complexion…”

  My stomach flips.

  Luca shrugs. “Women like that tend to coast through life on their looks, never bothering to cultivate kindness or compassion ‘cause, frankly, they never need it. Not when every man they meet is falling over himself, just trying to get their attention. Most of the time, there’s a pretty strong correlation between attractiveness and entitlement.” His eyes flicker down to my mouth and linger there. “Glad to know you’re an exception. You care about people. Don’t know why you’re so determined not to show that side of yourself to anyone, but I gotta say… I’m looking forward to finding out.”

  My mouth goes totally dry. I have no freaking clue how to respond to something like that, so I do the only thing I can do — ignore it completely and hurry on with the rest of my tale.

  “Right. Well.” I cough. “Long sob story short, my finances have been a bit tight for the past few months… So much so that I’ve been working pretty much any job I can find. And, honestly, I haven’t found many. Not well paying ones, anyway, since I have no employment history. Every decent entry-level job calls for at least five years of experience, or an unpaid internship in the field.” I trace my fingertip against the silver-veined marble countertop, too embarrassed to look at him as I say the rest. “It probably won’t surprise you to hear that with a degree in fashion design from a party school, I’m not exactly qualified to do anything except shop.”

  “Bullshit, babe.”

  My eyes fly up to Luca’s. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” He pins me with a look. “You’re qualified to do anything you set your mind to. Knew that the first minute I clapped eyes on you. You’re a force of nature, Delilah James Sinclair.”

  “Did you not hear a word I said? I’m not a force of anything. The only thing I’ve been forcing lately is my fake laugh during interviews for jobs I’ll never get hired for anyway.” I groan. “Why oh why didn’t I study something useful, like accounting? I’d be a great accountant! Except for the fact that I’m sort of terrible at math.” My brows pull together. “But I could’ve studied speech pathology. Or physical therapy. Oh, or dentistry! I’m already a religious flosser, how hard could it be to make the leap to doing it professionally?”

  “About eight years of school,” Luca murmurs.

  “Scratch that, definitely not dentistry, the human mouth is vile,” I say immediately.

  He smirks.

  I groan again. “God, I’m an idiot. If I could go back and slap my eighteen-year-old self for majoring in Jell-O shots and cute fraternity brothers…”

  Luca’s lips twitch.

  “Forget I said that.” I drop my burning cheeks into my hands. “In fact, forget I said anything at all, about any of this. Let’s rewind to thirty minutes ago, when you thought I was a prostitute. I think I preferred that to being the pathetic poor girl lacking any viable job prospects.”

  “You send out invitations to that pity party you’re throwing, or is it a solo celebration?”

  I laugh, despite myself, and glance up at him. “Would you believe, I sent invitations but turnout h
as been pretty lackluster.”

  “Assuming mine got lost in the mail then.”

  “Nah, you didn’t make the cut. Very exclusive guest list.”

  “Ah. Should’ve known.” His eyes get ultra-warm as they hold mine, until I’m forced to glance down at my plate just so I can breathe again. I focus on pushing my pancakes around, instead of the thousand butterflies that just burst to life inside my stomach.

  “Delilah.”

  “What?”

  He’s silent, waiting for me to look up at him. With a sigh, I lift my eyes and find him watching me, weighing his words with extra care.

  “You’re going to figure this out. I promise. Might not seem like it right now, but there’s more than one way to live a life, more than one route to happiness. Can be tough to see that, when you’ve spent twenty-five years headed one direction and suddenly hit a detour. But don’t forget, you’re the one in the driver’s seat. You get to control where you end up.”

  “I think, based on recent events, we shouldn’t have too much faith in my driving skills.”

  “Probably a good call.” He smirks. “By the way — update your damn license, will you? You shouldn’t be driving around with an expired one. Especially when you’re pretending to be a cast member from a bad Nicolas Cage movie.”

  My brows lift. “National Treasure?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Ghost Rider?”

  Another shake.

  “Season of the Witch?”

  “No.”

  “The Wicker Man?”

  Head still shaking, he cracks a smile.

  “Man, that guy has made a lot of terrible movies.”

  “True.” Luca laughs — a low, delicious rumble that makes me squirm on my barstool. “But in this instance, I was referring to Gone in 60 Seconds, considering your recent criminal activities.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “You know, if you update your license, that’s one less misdemeanor for them to charge you with.”

  The man cannot resist the chance to boss me around.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Not trying to father you. Trying to help you.”

  “Afraid there’s no helping me.” I heave an exaggerated, melodramatic sigh. “It’s a lost cause, at this point.”

  “Your life isn’t over just because it’s not working out the way you planned. Hell, nothing in my life has gone as planned. I didn’t even have a plan. Didn’t go to college. Opted out of high school at sixteen and got my GED. All the same, I’ve managed pretty well for myself. May not have a bunch of letters after my name, but no one cares too much about your professional certifications when you’re uppercutting them to the jaw in a championship bout.” His shrug is light, but his eyes are serious.

  As I stare across the counter at him, I realize how little I know about Luca Buchanan. Who exactly is this man, behind the badass exterior and hulking build? Where did he grow up? Is he from a big family, the kind that’s always bickering and laughing and fighting over dinner rolls at the table, or one like mine, full of gaping holes and painful memories that make it hard to look each other in the eye?

  I’ve never let myself wonder before.

  But sitting here, staring at him, I want to know so many things it terrifies me. His favorite colors and restaurants and holiday traditions. His pet peeves and passions and what he plans to do with his life, after his fighting days are over.

  Danger! Fall back! Fall back!

  “So, you’re saying I should shift gears and do something out of character?” I force a joking tone, trying to redirect the suddenly serious turn our conversation has taken down a lighter bend. “Maybe run off and join the circus? Become an elephant trainer or an acrobat or a bearded lady? I admit, elephants are cute, but I’m not extraordinarily flexible and no matter how hard I try, I doubt my goatee will be growing in anytime soon.”

  “No.” He disregards my attempt to change the subject, still watching me with a seriousness that sets me on edge. “I’m saying that fancy degrees only get you so far. At the end of the day, they don’t make you any more qualified for life than street smarts. Just a matter of perspective, preparedness, and finding the right path for yourself.” He pauses. “And you will find yours, Delilah.”

  “You sound so certain.”

  “One rule I live by, when it comes to attaining anything: visualize the outcome you desire,” he murmurs. “Applies to my fighting strategies just as easily as it does your financial woes. Don’t focus on every small step in the race; picture yourself at the finish line. You’ll cross it eventually. Not a doubt in my mind about that.”

  The butterflies in my stomach begin to swarm.

  Shit.

  For a man of few words, he certainly can pull out some good ones when he needs to. I myself am struggling to string together my thoughts, so I pour everything I’m feeling into a look and direct it his way.

  Thank you, I don’t whisper, holding his eyes.

  Anytime, babe, he doesn’t respond, lips tugging up in a half-smile.

  Sliding off his stool, he grabs our plates and walks to the sink. “Still don’t get where the outfit comes in.”

  I hop down and follow him, syrup-covered platter in hand. He starts rinsing as I pull open the dishwasher.

  “There was a Craigslist ad seeking a housekeeper, three days a week in a rich suburb west of the city. Decent pay, plus I could take the bus there which was really great, since last week my car got seized by two very unfriendly repo-men with the worst cases of plumber’s butt I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  I wince, remembering the horror as they leaned over to attach my adorable Mini Cooper convertible to their tow truck.

  “Seriously, I’ve seen tectonic plates with smaller cracks,” I mutter.

  I think I hear a choked sound of amusement, but when I glance at Luca, I find him staring down at me with a totally blank expression.

  “What?”

  He just shakes his head.

  “Whatever.” I sigh. “I took the job. I needed the cash and I figured, how hard could it possibly be to clean a house?” My brows knit together. “Of course, I didn’t take into account the fact that, when I got there, the owner of said house would be an eighty-five-year-old Hugh Hefner wannabe with wandering eyes and a mandatory work uniform revealing enough to rate NC-17.”

  “He asked you to wear that while cleaning his house?” Luca sounds skeptical. “And you actually complied?”

  “What part of this story are you not comprehending?” I ask, slightly offended by his tone. “You saw my refrigerator the other night. There’s nothing in there except a bottle of sauvignon blanc — and, trust me, after the ordeal I’ve had, that won’t last the night. My car’s been impounded for failure to pay the monthly loan. My landlord, who used to bake me a freaking banana bread every month, sent me a very tersely-worded eviction notice. Oh, and my favorite department store cut up my credit card last time I went in to buy moisturizer. Moisturizer!” I throw up my hands. “French maid uniform be damned, I needed the cash if I want to buy groceries, pay rent, and hydrate my skin on a regular basis to avoid looking like Mrs. Potato Head by age thirty.”

  Luca shakes his head in silent disbelief.

  “It’s not like this was my first choice of employment, trust me. It’s not like I haven’t done other jobs. I tried becoming Instagram famous — turns out you need to post more than once every three months to build a following. I tried to get a job at a gym — apparently, they frown on it when you believe the best kind of workout happens between the sheets, not on a treadmill.”

  His eyes cut to mine with a heated look in them.

  Moving on!

  “I got a job on one of those gourmet taco trucks — and I don’t even like tacos. Which, honestly, the universe must’ve known, because the thing crashed with me in it.”

  “Probably ‘cause you were driving it with an expired license.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I wasn’t the one driving. I was in the b
ack with the food. Guacamole went everywhere. And avocado does not lift out of cotton, I don’t care what those OxyClean commercials claim.”

  He snorts as he loads another dish.

  “I spent a day as a sign-spinner outside one of those TurboTax places — it made me so dizzy, I passed out on the street and woke up sharing a stoop with a hobo.” I search my brain for more failed job opportunities. “Oh! I tried being a kitty sitter for a woman down my street and caught cat scratch fever — was in the ER for two days and actually lost money. I tried being a waitress, but I dropped every tray. Before the moisturizer incident, I even worked a few shifts at that same department store, recommending products and giving beauty advice. Of course, that didn’t end well after a woman came in asking about dark marks and I accused her of being a Death Eater.”

  An amused chuckle comes from Luca.

  “Don’t laugh! It’s true. And, in my defense, she really had a Bellatrix Lestrange vibe about her.”

  “Even a Harry Potter villain outranks a Hugh Hefner impersonator.”

  “Honestly, I thought Mr. McGuire was harmless.” I pause. “Pervy, perhaps, but ultimately harmless.”

  “Until…” Luca prompts, loading the last dish and starting the wash cycle. He leans against the sink and pins me with a look.

  Avoiding his eyes, I take a few steps away to create a little distance between us. I rest back against the kitchen island directly across from him, mirroring his pose. I don’t — can’t — look at him when I say the next part.

  “Until I was in his bedroom, changing the sheets — for the record, I used chic hotel-corner folds and everything — and his hand found its way beneath my skirt.”

  Luca curses lowly, with such vehemence my eyes widen and fly up to his face. There’s a very scary expression twisting his features, the kind that suggests he’d like to throw his much-lauded left hook into my former employer’s face.

  Yikes.

  Swallowing hard, I decide to leave out some of the more colorful details of Mr. McGuire’s groping. Hearing how the old man grabbed my arm, twisted until my eyes began to tear, and attempted to push me down face-first on the bedspread — stark naked as the day he was born, in all his saggy-assed glory, mind you — will only fan the flames of Luca’s temper.