“I didn’t stick around to see what else he planned to do,” I murmur. “I kicked him where it counts, swiped his car keys off the kitchen counter, and took off. I wasn’t stealing his car, I swear — I just had to get out of there and wasn’t really thinking straight. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize until I was halfway home that my cellphone was still sitting on his bedroom floor. I must’ve been more freaked out than I realized, because I was driving a wee bit above the speed limit—”
Luca snorts. “Eighty in a thirty.”
“—and I didn’t see the light turn red until I’d already barreled through the intersection. Cue police sirens, followed by a very judgmental interrogation with an officer who took one look at my outfit and decided I was an escort who’d helped herself to some of her client’s personal belongings without permission. It was clear he didn’t believe a word I said. He laughed when I tried to explain that the car was a loan.”
“Can you blame him? People don’t make a habit of lending out cars that cost more than most houses. Sounds a bit out there, babe, you gotta admit.”
“I’ll admit no such thing! He was a jerk. And stop calling me babe.” My teeth clench. “After they pulled me over… well you know the rest. Squad car. County jail. Holding cell. Phone call. Then…”
“Me,” he murmurs. “Guess it’s a good thing I left my number on your palm.”
I flip my hand over and glance down at the faint smudge of ink still staining my skin. “Not that I’m complaining, based on how things played out, but what exactly prompted you to put your contact information in indelible ink on my body in the first place?”
He stills. “You don’t remember?”
“I don’t remember anything past getting back to Phoebe’s in the party bus that night… It’s all a blur.” My eyes narrow on his face suddenly. “Why? I didn’t do anything embarrassing, did I?”
He shakes his head, but his eyes are guarded. I can’t read him at all.
Shit.
My heart is thumping. “I mean… I was passed out the entire time. So I couldn’t possibly have done or said anything embarrassing. Right, Luca?”
“If you say so,” he murmurs slowly.
Shit! That’s not a denial.
“What the hell happened?” I hiss.
“Exactly what you think — brought you home, carried you inside, tucked you in bed, left once I was sure you weren’t gonna get sick in your sleep and asphyxiate.”
His voice is matter-of-fact, but I can’t shake the feeling he’s not telling me everything. Unfortunately, since I have no actual memories to back up my suspicions, there’s little I can do about it.
I blow out an exasperated breath. “It’s been a really stellar two days.”
“Something for your memoirs.”
“Oh, yeah — my big, bad, law-breaking night of debauchery, all due to an octogenarian determined to turn his house into a knockoff Playboy Mansion, with or without my willing participation.” I roll my eyes. “Can you believe, when the police got in touch with him last night, he acted like he’d encouraged a valued employee to borrow the car so she could get home safely.” I snort. “I guess he knows a sexual assault charge would be far more inconvenient than the expense of towing his Bentley back home.”
Luca’s expression darkens with anger again.
“Turn that frown upside down, Buchanan. It could’ve been worse, all things considered.”
“Someone made advances on you without your consent,” he growls. “In my book, doesn’t get much worse than that.”
“That part wasn’t ideal, I’ll admit. But at least none of the charges the police threw at me will stick, except maybe reckless driving. I’ll probably end up paying a fine, if anything. Though, personally, I think my night in a jail cell with a hooker was punishment enough.”
“The arresting officer isn’t a bad guy. I’ll give him a call later, try to smooth things over.”
“No,” I say immediately. “You’ve done enough for me. I already have to pay you back for the bail money, plus picking me up and feeding me… I can’t ask you to do any more.”
“Guess it’s lucky you didn’t ask, then. I offered.”
“But—”
“Delilah. Let me do this.”
My mouth opens to protest again, but I force down the objection when I catch sight of his expression. He looks as though his mind is thoroughly made up. I lean back against the edge of the counter and clear my throat. When I finally speak, my voice is barely a murmur.
“Why?”
His brows tug inward. “Why what?”
“Why are you so determined to help me?”
“Why are you so determined to handle everything alone?”
I jerk my chin higher, not deigning to answer.
Luca’s eyes flash. “That’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. Pretty sure I already know the answer.”
“Oh, really?” I scoff doubtfully.
“Yeah, really.” His eyes narrow on my face and I find myself wishing we were still separated by the breakfast bar. “Everyone thinks you’re a good time girl. In it for the laughs. Never serious, never sad. Nothing touches you — no friendship drama, no work stress, no lasting relationships. But I don’t buy that for a second. You may look like you’ve got your shit totally together, like nothing ruffles you, but it’s only ‘cause you keep that damn guard up all the time and never let what’s underneath show to anyone, not even your inner circle.”
“Sounds like generic psychobabble bullshit to me,” I snap, pulse beginning to pound. “A one-size-fits all, Dr. Phil diagnosis.”
“Fine. You want me to be more specific?” He steps closer to me, eyes locking on mine. “Guessing you talk to your parents at most once, maybe twice a month, and that’s the way you all prefer it. You can’t remember the last time you had a talk with your brother that wasn’t about him asking for money. You’ve never held a job long-term, not because you’re unqualified or unintelligent, but because you refuse to commit to anything that might require you to give a shit. You push away any guy who attempts to figure you out, because you’re afraid of what might happen if he really got to know you. The real you, not the carefree girl you pretend to be. Even your best friends, who you’d donate a kidney for without being asked twice, are held at arm’s length when it comes to the real shit. You hide it pretty well, but there’s loss in your eyes, just beneath the surface. Because whatever grief you experienced was so great, so all-consuming, you never really moved past it. It’s still with you, putting a spin on everything you do.” He finally pauses, eyes losing a bit of their edge as they catch sight of the look on my face. His voice gentles. “How’d I do? Am I close?”
He phrases it like a question, but we both know it’s not.
He already knows the answer.
Yes. He’s close. More than close.
My heart is thundering. My palms are clammy. My lungs feel too tight, like I can’t catch proper breath. I bite the inside of my cheek and try to focus on the tinge of pain it brings, instead of the pangs inside my chest.
You couldn’t be more wrong! I want to scream at him. You don’t know me at all!
Except, he’s not wrong. In fact, in the span of thirty seconds, he’s somehow summed me up so succinctly and accurately, it’s a little scary.
“You’re totally off base,” I say weakly. “You don’t know shit about me, Luca Buchanan.”
“Uh huh,” he murmurs, looking like he doesn’t believe a damn word. “You can keep telling yourself that, babe. Doesn’t make it true.”
I narrow my eyes in a glare. “And you’re basing this theory on what, exactly? We’ve interacted — as in, actually exchanged words — maybe four times since we first met.”
He glares right back at me. “I might not say a lot, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention. Everyone else is so busy being dazzled by that front you put up, they never bother to look beneath it. But I see it. I see you, Delilah.”
“That’s— you�
�re— Ugh! I don’t even know why I bother trying to reason with you.” I plant my hands on my hips. “You’re a condescending ass.”
He shrugs lightly. “Been called worse.”
“I’m not going to stay here and be insulted.” My voice breaks; I ignore it. “In fact, I’m not going to stay here at all. I’m leaving.”
I whirl around in a flounce of skirts and hair, and stomp away from him.
“Delilah,” Luca calls after me, never shifting from his spot against the countertop as he watches me cross the apartment in angry strides. I pretend not to hear him as I bend to scoop up my keys, snatch my purse off the table, and head for the front door.
“Delilah,” he repeats, softer this time, appearing suddenly in my path just as I’m reaching for the knob. I didn’t even hear him move. “Where do you think you’re you going?”
“Home,” I hiss, scowling up at him. “I’m tired and I need a shower and frankly, I’ve reached my lifetime limit for bossy, macho-man antics.”
“Lifetime limit?” He smirks, the bastard. “Never planning to see me again, huh?”
“Not never.” My tone is frostier than my gaze. “I suppose there’ll be no avoiding you at Phoebe’s annual Christmas party.”
“That’s six months away.”
“And?”
His lips twitch. “That’s not gonna work for me. Not now that I’ve finally started to figure you out.”
“The only thing you’ve figured out is how to annoy the crap out of me in thirty seconds or less.”
“If I work on it, sure I could get my time down to twenty.”
My eyes narrow. “Was that a joke?”
“Never joke about my capabilities, babe.”
“Stop calling me babe. I’m leaving.”
“So you said.”
“Get out of my way.”
He doesn’t budge. “Why exactly are you leaving?”
“I’m exhausted. I need a shower, a nap, and a glass of wine — not necessarily in that order. And I want to be in my own home, for the remaining few days before I’m physically removed by my landlord, thank you very much.”
“Delilah—”
“Luca,” I mimic in a snotty tone. “Move. You can’t keep me captive here forever. I’m going home.”
“How you getting there, exactly?”
Shit. I forgot about my lack of car, phone, and cash.
“I’ll walk,” I say stiffly.
“To Beacon Hill.”
My chin jerks higher. “Yes.”
“In that outfit.”
Double shit. I forgot about the maid uniform.
“Yes,” I snap stubbornly.
He runs a hand through his hair, clearly exasperated with me. Reading the determination on my face, he heaves a heavy sigh and pulls the keys from his pocket.
“Come on, then. I’ll drive you.”
Chapter Six
Behind every strong girl… is a tribe of other strong girls who proofread her emails really quickly when they have a second.
Delilah Sinclair, forwarding her resume to her best friends.
The trip to my apartment is marked by strained silence.
Gone is the playful air of two people who battled over maple syrup, who leapt over couch cushions and nearly kissed in his foyer. We walk in total quiet — two ships sharing the same ocean, buoyed along momentarily by a single current but ultimately destined to go separate ways as soon as the wind shifts.
On our way out, Luca grabs a sweatshirt off the hook by the door and passes it to me without a word. Part of me wants to object, just to be obstinate, but the rest of me sincerely wants to avoid being seen in broad daylight dressed like this, so I pull it over my head.
It’s laughably large on my frame — practically a dress. Warm and gray, it smells like mint and spice and ever so faintly of sweat. A distinct, delicious combination of aromas I’ve come to associate with only one man.
Luca.
He’s not touching me, hell he isn’t even looking at me as we walk down his hallway toward the elevators, but with his scent enveloping me like a cloud, I feel him everywhere, on every part of my body, like a low-frequency vibration humming through me. Even as I curse myself for being so affected by him, I breathe him in a little more with each inhale.
I know in a few minutes, we’ll part ways… but I’m filled with the irrational fear that nothing I do will ever rid my senses of his memory. Not completely. That he’ll linger on inside me forever, like some inextinguishable neurotoxin my vital organs can’t filter out, long after he’s left my presence.
The elevator descends at an achingly slow pace down the five floors to the street. I stare pointedly at the button panel instead of the man by my side. I don’t need to look at him to hear his words still ringing in my ears, haunting me despite my best attempts to shake them off.
You push away any guy who attempts to figure you out, because you’re afraid of what might happen if he really got to know you. The real you, not the carefree girl you pretend to be.
I can’t act like those words didn’t hit a little too close to their intended target, just as I can’t pretend I don’t care that he sees straight through my cool-girl act, in a way no one else in my life has ever really managed to. I tell myself I shouldn’t give a crap what Luca thinks about me, that his opinion shouldn’t matter, that I barely even know the guy…
But you want to, an annoying internal voice whispers to me. Maybe that’s the problem.
He’s right, of course. After Mimi… I don’t let anyone get too close. Especially someone like him, who’d enjoy nothing more than to take a sledgehammer to the walls around my heart, given half the chance. Men like Luca live for a good challenge, love nothing better than the thrill of conquering something most men would consider out of reach.
He’d wreck me just to prove a point.
I do realize, if I’d only sought him out when we first met, his interest probably would’ve vanished faster than a plate of double chocolate cupcakes placed in front of pregnant Gemma. Even I can see the irony: my determination to stay away from him is the sole reason he’s so fascinated by me.
They call it a catch-22. A circumstance with conflicting or mutually dependent conditions. I can’t get close to Luca without jeopardizing the dynamic of our entire friend group… and yet, my current strategy of pretending he doesn’t exist only seems to be making him more inclined to seek me out.
Basically, I’m caught between a rock and Luca’s rock hard abs, with absolutely no way to extract myself gracefully. Which would be fine, if it was the only problem on my docket, but I’m dealing with so much other drama right now, boy troubles are the last thing I need to contend with.
Following him outside, I yank the hem of the sweatshirt down to cover my upper thighs, sticking close in Luca’s shadow as we pass a group of early-morning joggers out for a run along the harbor.
Who the hell runs this early? Voluntarily?
I catch a few strange looks cast my direction as we walk toward his bike. Understandable — the garters and heels are a bit much, for this time of day. (Or any time of day.)
I’m steeling myself for another windswept ride on the back of the Ducati when Luca’s hand lands on the small of my back, bringing me to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk.
“We’ll take my truck.” He clicks a button on his keys — the taillights of the giant black pickup truck parked directly beside the bike flash in response.
I narrow my eyes at him. “And you decided against driving the truck to pick me up from jail, thereby sparing me humiliation and saving the citizens of Boston from an unsought viewing of my butt cheeks, because..?”
He shrugs. “Was more concerned with getting to you as fast as possible than anything else. Didn’t cross my mind you might not be dressed appropriately for a motorcycle ride. Next time, I’ll ask what you’re wearing before I pick a mode of transportation.”
“There won’t be a next time,” I grumble, heading for the passenger side.
<
br /> “Whatever you say, babe.”
Ugh!
I admit — I slam my door a little harder than necessary as I scramble up into the cab. (So, I’m not perfect. Sue me.) I manage to keep my eyes fixed stubbornly out the window the entire twenty-minute ride to my place. Half sulking, half seething.
Luca seems equally content to stew in silence.
In truth, we’re both a little wary, after the past few hours together. Perhaps we said some things we didn’t intend to, crossed lines we weren’t supposed to, traded out our careful distance for startling intimacy too fast to course-correct. I’m not sure, exactly, but things certainly seemed a hell of a lot simpler when I didn’t know what his eyes look like from a millimeter away, when he couldn’t describe those near-translucent freckles that dust my nose in indisputable detail.
We are Icarus, flying foolishly toward a low-hanging sun.
Too close.
Too quick.
I fear a lethal fall is imminent.
When we pull up outside my building, Luca doesn’t even have a chance to shut the engine off before my fingers find their way to the door handle. I need to get out of this truck, away from this man, before I do something stupid like smack him across the face. Or kiss him silly.
“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “For coming to my rescue. I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help.”
“You’d have figured something out.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” I try out a smile. “Those police officers were a hell of a lot nicer to Blaze Buchanan than they ever were to me.”
His eyes never shift from mine. “You’d have been just fine. Doubt there are many things on this earth you can’t handle, Delilah.”
I swallow hard. Shit. I can handle his gruff commands and sarcastic commentary no problem… but when he’s sweet, something in my chest starts to feel too tight.
“I’ll pay you back for the bail money. I might not be able to right away, because… well, you know my financial situation.”
Take Your Time (A Boston Love Story Book 4) Page 9