Take Your Time (A Boston Love Story Book 4)

by Julie Johnson

  He nods. “You don’t have to pay me back at all.”

  “I do, though.” I steady my shoulders. “I may not have a penny to my name, but I’ve still got my pride.”

  “Wouldn’t be you, if you didn’t.”

  My grip curls around the handle. I strive for a casual tone, but my throat feels clogged with feelings I don’t want acknowledge.

  “I’ll see you around, Buchanan.”

  “Count on it, Delilah.”

  My brows lift at the assuredness of his statement, but I don’t comment.

  If Luca thinks our paths will cross again in the near future, he couldn’t be more wrong. This — him coming to my rescue, cooking me breakfast, being my personal savior — was a one-time thing. A fluke. Certainly nothing to be repeated any time soon.

  Or ever, if I can help it.

  With a faint smile that doesn’t reach my eyes, I shove open the door and hop down from the truck before he can say another word. I walk on shaky legs up the stone steps to the front door of my narrow brick row house, clutching my purse so hard my fingertips turn white, wishing I couldn’t feel the weight of his eyes lingering on me as I shove my key into the lock. It’s only after I’ve closed the front door behind me and collapsed back against it with a sigh of utter exhaustion that I hear the roar of his engine as he drives off.

  Away from the curb. Down my street. Out of my life.

  It’s for the best, I tell myself. No good can come of that friendship.

  Trying to stay platonic friends with Luca Buchanan would be like playing with fire and assuming you won’t get burned to a crisp. If you value your life even remotely, it’s better to avoid the flames altogether.

  Sinking down to the floor with my back to the wooden doorframe, I stare around at my home with bleary eyes. I used to love this place more than anywhere on earth. For the past three years, it’s been a refuge, a hideout from the rest of the world. The one place that’s ever belonged entirely to me.

  And I’m about to lose it.

  People always seem skeptical, when I say I live alone.

  Don’t you get lonely?

  My answer is usually an eye roll or a bemused grin, depending on who’s asking the question. Personally, I love cohabitating with no one except my shadow. My keys are always exactly where I’ve left them, no one ever finishes off my leftovers without asking permission, and I’ve never once had to fight to do a load of laundry or take the first shower in the morning. I suppose it’s a natural progression, after living with a houseful of noisy, nonstop party girls all through college, first in the dorms and later in a dilapidated house we rented for dirt cheap off campus. It was fun while it lasted, but I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t jump at the chance to sign a solo lease as soon as my graduation tassel flipped from the right side of my cap to the left.

  I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my time alone. I don’t have parties. I rarely have friends over. I never bring men back here with me. My last three boyfriends were summarily dismissed as soon as they started asking that pesky question.

  Why don’t we ever sleep at your place?

  It’s easier to make excuses than tell them the truth — bringing you into my space, letting you into that part of my life, is a commitment I’m not willing to make. Just one more string I’ll inevitably have to cut, when this ends.

  I spent months agonizing over tasteful yet trendy decor to fill these rooms. Weeks papering the walls in a gorgeous champagne shade I picked to make the dark wood floors and heavy fireplace mantle a bit more feminine.

  That wallpaper is the only vestige of me left in this place, now. It’s practically unrecognizable as my gaze moves over the many stacks of boxes piled across my living room. The entire apartment feels foreign, as if it already belongs to a new tenant now that all my pretty things are boxed up to be carted off to a new — read: cheaper — zip code. Assuming I can find somewhere to go in the next three days.

  I’ve already sold most of my furniture on Craigslist over the past few weeks, for petty cash from hopeful internet hagglers. It was tough to part with my pretty white Crate & Barrel sectional, my chic side table, the plush faux fur ottoman I went to three separate stores to locate last fall. Harder still to say goodbye to my stately four-poster bed frame and the mirrored vanity set I spent so many mornings sitting in front of, perfecting my makeup.

  There’s really only one piece left, at this point — one I refuse to part with, no matter how broke I get. They’ll have to pry that antique writing desk out of my cold dead hands before I’ll ever give it up. It’s the only thing of Mimi’s I took from the Nantucket estate when I left. I doubt my parents even noticed it was gone. They’re hardly ever there, anymore. It’s too painful for them.

  The desk sits alone in a corner, legs wrapped in plastic bubbles, the last soldier on the losing side of a battle. I lift my hand and give a mocking salute in its direction.

  At ease, soldier. The war’s over. We’ve lost.

  As I sit there on the floor, in my own company for the first time in days, it’s so quiet I can hear the sound of my bathroom faucet leaking down the hall. A steady plink! plink!plink! of water against metal that seems to mock me.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Loser. Loser. Loser.

  My eyes begin to prick with unwanted tears, so I push the palms of my hands against them tightly, as if to stem the flow. It’s stupid — I’m crying over something that doesn’t make any sense at all. I mean…

  I asked Luca to leave. I practically demanded to be alone.

  Because, typically, whenever I have a bad day… or, in this case, days… I crave only my own company. But sitting here in the shadow of all my boxes, with the stark solitude crushing in on me from all sides… I’ve never felt less like being by myself in my whole damn life.

  After I drag myself out of my morose mental state and into a hot shower, I sleep for so long, I begin to wonder whether I should check with the Surgeon General to find out what length of unconsciousness constitutes an actual coma.

  When I wake, delirious and disoriented, I sit straight up on my half-deflated air mattress with absolutely no concept of how long I’ve been out; it could be five hours or five days, I genuinely couldn’t tell you. Scrambling off the mattress with all the elegance of a drunk girl climbing out of an inflatable inner tube, I lose my balance completely on the dismount and sail face-first toward the floor. My forehead smacks into the unforgiving hardwood with enough force to make my eyes water.

  Ouch.

  Normally, there’d be a plush white rug underfoot, to cushion such a tumble. Alas, a cheery girl named Denise drove away with it strapped to the roof of her Miata three days ago, never to be seen again.

  Blinking back tears, I rub my stinging forehead with one hand while the other gropes blindly for my small battery-operated alarm clock — one of my few earthly possessions not yet packed away in cardboard. I can already feel the beginnings of a goose-egg forming. I’ll probably look like a lumpy unicorn in Phoebe’s wedding photos.

  Perfect.

  When I locate the alarm clock, I gape at the pale green luminescent numbers. It’s 7:30AM. I’ve lost almost an entire day to slumber. Not that I’m necessarily surprised — I was exhausted after Luca dropped me off yesterday. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

  My cheeks heat as fragments of last night’s dreams flicker through my head. My subconscious dredged up more than one steamy fantasy involving maple syrup, my tongue, and a pack of abs so chiseled, they make Joe Manganiello look out of shape.

  Shit, did I say fantasy?

  I meant nightmare.

  Definitely, one hundred percent, a total, complete, horrifying, nightmare.

  Crap on a cheese strudel.

  It probably didn’t help that, after my shower yesterday, I pulled on the first warm piece of clothing I could find when I crawled into bed to crash — which just so happened to be Luca’s borrowed sweatshirt. I woke in the fetal position with it wrapped around my limbs like a warm embrace.
>
  Ducking my chin down to the collar, I inhale deeply. Damn. It still smells like him. I can almost convince myself he’s here with me as I curl my knees up to my chest and I tuck them inside the massive garment. Fully cocooned, I play with a loose thread on the left cuff and tell myself my pajama selection was due entirely to my reluctance to dig through boxes in search of suitable sleeping attire. Not because I wanted to keep his memory close. Certainly not because just the thought of Luca makes me feel undeniably safe, like nothing bad can happen while he’s standing by my side, ready to singlehandedly fight back my demons.

  Because that would be utterly ridiculous.

  Right?

  My excuses sound feeble, even to my own ears.

  A huge yawn cracks my face in two. Truth be told, I probably could’ve slept another few hours, despite the risk of entering a full-on vegetative state. I can’t help wondering why I awakened so quickly—

  “Lila!”

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Come on, Lila, open up!”

  Oh, right.

  That’s why.

  Someone’s banging on my door with such little patience in his voice, for a moment I’m worried it might be Gordon Ramsey, come to scold me for taking too long on my risotto dish. I scramble upright and race out of my bedroom, down the hallway to the foyer, dodging boxes as I go. When I reach the front door, I hover behind it, listening hard.

  It can’t possibly be him…

  He wouldn’t have the nerve to show up here…

  Not after all the crap he pulled…

  “LILA! Come on, sis, I know you’re home.”

  Shit! It is him.

  With a sigh, I slide off the security chain and yank open my door.

  “Duncan,” I mutter darkly, staring at the sight of my brother standing on my porch in the pale morning light, dark sunglasses over his eyes. There’s a hefty duffle bag slung over his left shoulder and a leather satchel gripped tightly in his right hand.

  I’ve barely gotten his name past my lips when he reaches out, shoves my door open wide, and forces his towering frame inside my apartment. He’s hardly cleared the threshold when he slams the door closed behind him and collapses back against it, breathing so hard you’d think he’d just crossed the Boston Marathon finish line.

  “Please, by all means, come in,” I say dryly, crossing my arms over my chest as I examine him. My ire fades slightly as I take a closer look. He’s sweating, his clothes are wrinkled like he’s been wearing them for days, and his face is torn between an expression of profound relief and pallid fear.

  To say he doesn’t look like himself is putting it mildly. Duncan has always been handsome, with dark chestnut hair, high cheekbones and lively brown eyes the same shade as mine, except his are almond-shaped instead of saucer-like. Girls used to fall over themselves, hoping for a date with Duncan Sinclair, Class President and Homecoming King at the private academy we attended as teens. His effect on women only grew, as he matured into manhood.

  It’s more than just good looks. He’s always had a certain charisma, a magnetism that draws people in despite their better judgment. They never even realize they’re caught up in his spell until it’s too late.

  Like a clever magician.

  Or lethal quicksand.

  Trust me, growing up as his little sister wasn’t easy. He won every fight. He got my parents to take his side every time we disagreed about something, even when he was clearly at fault. That winsome disposition is simply… undeniable.

  It’s probably why he’s always been so successful. He’s got charm in spades and he’s always put it to good use, whether to talk the panties off the biggest prudes back in high school, or the wallets off the wealthiest investors in Silicon Valley.

  The man before me now bears almost no resemblance to the dapper big brother I remember. In the six months since I last saw him, his hair has grown out of its typically pristine cut and he’s lost considerable muscle mass, as if his daily gym routine has fallen by the wayside. He looks dull — totally drained of that spark that sways people over to his side in arguments, or has them pulling out their checkbooks after an investment pitch. Perhaps most alarming of all, there’s a mottled black bruise around his right eye, a remnant from a fist during a fight he clearly lost.

  Frankly, he looks awful.

  “What the hell happened to you?” I ask him, point blank. No use beating around the bush.

  His eyes crack open and scan me up and down. “Me? What happened to you? Are you even wearing pants?”

  I glance down at my bare legs and confirm that I am, in fact, not wearing much of anything from the waist down. Not that it matters — Luca’s sweatshirt is so giant, I’ve owned winter parkas less revealing.

  “I live here. I’ll be asking the questions, thank you very much.” I fold my arms over my chest and stare him down. “Seriously, what the hell are you doing here, Duncan? And why do you look like you’re on your way to audition for the role of Disheveled Hobo 3 on an episode of Law & Order: SVU?”

  He pushes off the door and runs a hand through his hair, jaw ticking. “Lila, I’m really not in the mood for your shitty jokes. Not today, all right?”

  “Again — I live here. My house, my rules, my shitty jokes. Deal with it… or don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

  “This how you treat all your guests?”

  “Guests are generally invited.”

  Annoyed, he glares at me; I glare right back at him.

  Am I being a little harsh?

  Maybe.

  But, to be fair, Duncan did squander our entire family fortune. My bitchiness has never been more justified.

  “How bad is it?” I ask.

  “How bad is what?”

  “Whatever trouble you’re in that brought you running all the way from California back to Boston.” I pause. “With a black eye. And luggage.”

  He sets down his duffle bag and the smaller leather satchel by the doorway. “Maybe I’m just here for a visit. I did grow up here. This coast doesn’t belong to you, Lila.”

  “You didn’t come for a visit.”

  His eyes narrow. “How would you know?”

  “You barely ever even call me, let alone show up unannounced on my doorstep for an impromptu sibling bonding session.”

  “Can’t a big brother just surprise his little sister without a reason?” he hedges, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

  I think about it for a nanosecond. “Not when that big brother is you.”

  “Don’t be so cynical, Lila.”

  “Don’t dodge my questions, Duncan.”

  His jaw clenches.

  When he remains quiet, I start tapping one bare foot against the hardwood in impatience. “Not getting any younger here, D.”

  “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you weren’t entirely happy to see me.”

  “I wonder why!” I scoff. “Could it possibly have something to do with you taking every penny out of Mom and Dad’s savings?”

  “I didn’t take every penny.” He pauses. “I didn’t touch their retirement accounts.”

  “Wow, what a saint you are!”

  “Oh, like you’re up for a Nobel Peace Prize, Lila?”

  I shrug. “I never claimed to be. But I also didn’t bankrupt six different companies while somehow maintaining a sense of hubris to rival the Greek gods.”

  “Look, that’s why I’m here, okay? I’m going to get the money back — everything I lost, and more.”

  “I’ve heard this tale before,” I remind him in a tired voice.

  “It’s different this time!” he snaps, looking more pissed than the day I snuck into his room at age six, disassembled the LEGO castle he’d spent weeks building, and used the pieces to make a house for my Polly Pockets. “ManScents has a massive target demo, and investors are psyched about its potential.”

  I freeze. “I’m sorry… did you just say manscents?”

  “Yes,” he mutters.

&n
bsp; “What in the ever loving hell is a manscent?”

  “Did Mom and Dad not tell you about my new company?”

  “I’m sure they did at some point,” I murmur unconvincingly. “Honestly, Duncan, you’ve changed careers so many times it’s a little tough to keep track of what you’re up to, these days.”

  “Well, we can’t all make it as easy as you do.” He smiles coldly. “I never have trouble keeping up with your career path, considering you’ve never actually bothered to pursue one.”

  “Nice. Real nice.”

  He shrugs. “You started it.”

  “Did we take a time machine back to the ‘90s without my knowledge?” I shake my head. “Can we just talk like adults for once, without the unnecessary verbal sparring?”

  “Fine.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  A well-behaved Duncan? That’ll be the day.

  I stare at him. “What, pray tell, is a manscent? I’d guess, but I’m somewhat afraid of the answer.”

  “Pretty self-evident. It’s right there in the name. Man. Scents.”

  My brows lift, still totally confused.

  “They’re male candles.”

  “I wasn’t aware wax had a gender,” I say in a strangled voice, trying very hard not to laugh.

  He pins me with an exasperated look. “Candles for men, Lila. Man candles. It’s really not that complicated.”

  Complicated? No, that’s not the word I’d use to describe this new business venture. Asinine, on the other hand…

  I bite my inner cheek so I don’t start giggling. “And… what do these man candles smell like?”

  He hesitates for a beat, jaw ticking like a time bomb. “Our most popular scents are Golf Course and Crispy Bacon. But we’ve been seeing steady increases in demand for Gunpowder and Pot Roast over the past few months. Gym Socks also has a surprisingly strong cult following.”

  I try to hold it in, I really do… but I can’t help it. I start cackling like a hyena.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Duncan sounds majorly offended by my mirth. “Great to know I’ve got your support.”

  “I’m sorry,” I gasp, trying to get a handle on my meltdown. “I think…” I choke down a snort and try for a somber tone. “I think ManScents sounds like a genius business idea. Gonna be huge.” Another giggle slips out. “Save me a celebratory Gunpowder candle to light up when you make your first million. It’ll be like blasting off a cannon in my living room.”