Take Your Time (A Boston Love Story Book 4)

by Julie Johnson

  “You do. But that doesn’t mean you always have feelings for them. In fact, I’d guess just the opposite. As soon as feelings are involved, you bolt.”

  “Have you been huffing glue again? I know you were determined to make your own centerpieces for the rehearsal dinner, but…”

  “Oh, come on. Admit it.”

  “Admit what?”

  “That you think Blaze Buchanan is hot hot hot.”

  “No. He’s not my type. You know that.”

  “Maybe the fact that he’s not the kind of man you’d typically go for is the reason he makes you so wiggy.”

  “He does not make me wiggy! No man has ever made me wiggy. I don’t do wiggy.”

  “You didn’t used to,” she murmurs lightly, eyes still gleaming with humor. “…Until December.”

  I groan. “You’re relentless.”

  “At least I’m not in denial.”

  I groan again, louder this time.

  Of course Phoebe would be convinced that my sudden single status is due to some secret, closely-harbored crush on Luca.

  (Which is just plain crazy. Clearly.)

  I can’t blame her for attempting to explain my strangely antisocial behavior over the past few months; I haven’t given her a real explanation, so she’s been forced to fill in the blanks with her own half-baked theories. It would be different, if she knew about my financial situation… and the fact that even if I wanted to start seeing someone new, I currently have zero cute first date outfits in my wardrobe, since I’ve been slowly selling off my designer bags and shoes on eBay for a fraction of their value, just so I have enough to make ends meet.

  Dating is never easy, but it’s a hell of a lot harder when your life is in shambles and you’re sleeping on an air mattress with a slow-leaking hole.

  Tell her, a stubborn inner voice suggests. She’s your best friend. She won’t judge you. Just tell her what’s been going on with you, idiot.

  But I can’t. Not now, at least, with her wedding mere days away. She has enough on her plate without me adding my drama to the mix.

  “Your conspiracy theories are running wild, Phoebe West. I’m just in a dry spell. I’m sure things will pick up again, in the near future.” I steel myself. “In fact, I’ve just decided — put me down for a definite plus one at the wedding.”

  Her smile crumples into a frown. “Are you sure?”

  No, I think.

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  I’ll just have to conjure up a date out of thin air, in the next two days.

  Easy.

  “Don’t bite my head off,” she murmurs, frowning. “But if you change your mind — if you decide not to bring someone — I won’t be mad. Don’t drag some random guy along just to prove me wrong.”

  “Noted.” I decide to change the subject to something much, much safer than my — nonexistent — love life. “Did I tell you Duncan’s in town?”

  “Your brother Duncan?”

  I nod.

  “The same brother who puked in my purse after the Sadie Hawkins dance?”

  “Yes, Phoebe.” My eyes roll. “You really have to let that go. It was a decade ago.”

  “It was my favorite purse! He ruined it.”

  I shake my head. “Well, don’t worry. He’s currently too busy ruining my life to ruin yours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I give her an abbreviated version of events, leaving my own financial woes out of the story as I tell her about Duncan’s newest failed business venture and surprise appearance on my doorstep this morning, asking for a loan.

  “That man has more trouble holding onto his money than an Irishman in a pub.” Phoebe’s eyes narrow. “Are you going to help him?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I hedge. “He’s at my apartment, now — I told him to stay put, for the time being, and promised to help him talk things through when I get home. We’ll come up with some kind of solution.”

  “You’re a good sister, Lila.” She pauses a beat. “Mimi would be proud of you, you know.”

  My throat gets tight. I attempt to clear it as I turn my back on my best friend in the world, grab my clutch purse off the chair, and drain the remnants of my mimosa. When I turn back to Phoebe, I can barely meet her eyes.

  “I should probably get going. Deal with Duncan.” I shrug. “You don’t mind if I skip out a little early, do you?”

  “Of course not, love.” Phoebe’s voice is soft. “Lila… I’m sorry if I upset you, bringing her up. I didn’t mean anything by it…”

  My gaze locks on hers. “I know you didn’t.” I try out a smile. “See you at the rehearsal dinner?”

  “Don’t be late. I need all my bridesmaids in attendance, to help make me beautiful.”

  “Phee, you never need any help in that department.”

  I blow her a kiss over my shoulder as I walk out the door.

  Chapter Eight

  Someone called me pretty today. Their exact words were you’re pretty annoying, but I’m taking it as a compliment anyway.

  Delilah Sinclair, always looking on the bright side.

  It shouldn’t surprise me.

  Honestly, I should’ve expected it, should’ve anticipated that this would happen. Still, I can’t help the flare of shocked disbelief that burns through me when I step inside my apartment, calling out for Duncan as I make my way to the kitchen, and find the note stuck to my refrigerator on a lime green sticky note. There’s just one line scrawled on it, in my brother’s familiar handwriting.

  I’M SORRY.

  And that’s when I know. He’s gone.

  Like I said, Duncan disappearing into thin air shouldn’t strike me as such a curveball. He came to me for money and when I couldn’t provide it, he took off to find someone who could. Simple as that.

  I’m not sure why it stings so much. I’ve long been aware that the only trust he’s concerned with building between us concerns my freshly drained trust fund. He has no use for me if I’m not bankrolling his latest business venture or bailing him out of a bad situation. I’m not a sister, certainly not a friend; in his mind, my value is tied intrinsically to my willingness to open my checkbook.

  Tired from a day that’s only half over, I slide off my heels as I walk to my bedroom and eye their scuffed soles. My last pair of Louboutins — the only ones I haven’t sold at the high end consignment shop around the corner. Phoebe eyed them suspiciously as soon as I walked into her fitting earlier, no doubt curious about my newfound penchant for wearing out-of-season items. It’s not like me to repeat outfits, let alone pair a classic autumn heel with an off-white summer sundress. She didn’t comment, but she definitely took note.

  I’ll have to tell her soon. There’ll be no way to hide it when I’m living in a dingy Somerville studio with a microscopic closet full of discount footwear.

  It’s hot outside — a sticky June afternoon, the kind that makes you want to stand in front of the fridge just to get some relief. The open windows allow a small breeze inside, but its barely enough to make a difference.

  I set down my heels, reach around for my zipper, and strip out of my dress. Fanning myself, I flop down on my limp air mattress in my lace bra and panty set, too lazy to even bother re-inflating it.

  Everything feels more manageable, after a twenty minute power nap…

  My eyes are sliding closed when something touches my leg — which, in itself, is alarming, considering I live alone. Even more so because, to be totally honest with you, whatever touches me is rather…

  Warm.

  And…

  Wet.

  And I think it might be…

  A tongue?!

  The only thought I can conjure is, Holy heck, something just licked me! In my own bed! Without my permission! How rude is that?!

  Eventually, my survival instincts take over — heart pounding, I bolt upright and scramble backwards out of bed. Pressing my tailbone to the wall, as far away from my mattress as I can get without leaving the room, I cu
rl my legs up to my chest and keep my eyes locked on my pretty pale violet comforter. For a second, I think it was my imagination…

  But then it — whatever it is — starts moving again, a basketball-sized lump thrashing around beneath my covers, trying to find me and, most likely, eat my brains. Horrible visions flash through my head, every invisible monster who ever lurked in my childhood closets or haunted me from the dark flooding into my brain in less than a second.

  The lump makes a lurch toward my pillows and I can’t help it.

  I scream.

  Not some small sound of distress, either — one of those massive, awesome, Old Hollywood shrieks, where the camera pans in close and lingers for what seems like an eternity. We’re talking Fay Wray, the first moment she spots King Kong, or Janet Leigh in that infamous Psycho shower scene. As the sound reverberates from my throat, I wonder vaguely why they never let actors get away with showing that much emotion anymore.

  “AHHHHHHHHHHH! OH MY GOD! AHHHHHHHHH!”

  I’m a certifiable scream queen.

  As the monster in my bed moves ever closer, I somehow find my feet. My spine presses tightly against my bedroom wall as I search for something with which to defend myself. Unfortunately for me, every potential weapon is carefully boxed away. Unless I plan to bean whatever is crawling toward me over the head with my alarm clock, I’m out of luck.

  Man, I wouldn’t last a single episode on The Walking Dead.

  I stand my ground, heart slamming against my ribs as the demon creeps closer. My hands fly up to shield my face as it makes a final lurch beneath the blankets…

  “AHHH—Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  My screams of distress die in my throat as I recognize the small, wet nose and shiny red muzzle snuffling its way from beneath my covers. I think I hear a distant slamming sound, but I’m so focused on the small dog who’s just struggled his way to freedom — and the undeniable sensation of relief that I’m not about to die gruesomely — I barely register it.

  The puppy’s eyes sweep the room. When he spots me, his mouth falls open in a toothy grin. He starts sprinting my direction at the speed of light, a blur of fur and unrestrained adoration. I can’t help laughing as he slams full frontal into my bare legs with surprising force, for such a little creature. I rock back, off balance…

  Straight into a warm, well-muscled chest.

  “AHHHHH!”

  Certain I’m about to be slaughtered — for real, this time — I scream again. And, to be totally upfront with you, my throat is starting to ache. Don’t ever let anyone tell you it’s easier to take the coward’s way out; I can now officially confirm that yelling this loudly, this frequently, takes a lot more effort than one might originally think.

  Large hands clamp down on my shoulders, rendering me immobile as fresh visions churn through my head. These are more the stab-rape-kill variety than the mommy-check-under-my-bed type I was worried about mere moments ago. My heart is pounding so hard, I’m worried I might actually have a heart attack and die right here on my pathetic air mattress, clad in a lace underwear set I got at the Rigby & Peller semi-annual sale for a serious bargain, my demise witnessed only by the small dog at my front and the cat burglar lurking at my back.

  I might appreciate the symmetry of such an end, if I weren’t experiencing cardiac arrhythmias.

  My heart stops beating altogether a few seconds later, when an amused male voice hits my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

  “Chill, babe. It’s only me.”

  Only him.

  ONLY HIM?!

  I think I would’ve preferred a murderer.

  I spin around to face him, hands planted on my hips and a glare fixed on my face.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Luca’s eyes are intent. “Was about to knock when I heard you screaming your head off. Didn’t think you’d want me to wait around for an invitation, if you were being attacked.”

  “How’d you get in? The door was locked.”

  “Picked the lock,” he says casually, like he’s just revealed his favorite color or described the upcoming week’s weather patterns.

  My mouth gapes. “You did what?”

  He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy studying my nearly naked body, his eyes roaming across my skin with so much fire in their depths, I think I may succumb to heat stroke.

  “Hey!” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Eyes up, bucko.”

  Light blue irises lift to mine. The desire in them makes my mouth go dry.

  Oh, boy.

  “Gotta tell you, Delilah,” he murmurs, voice gravelly. “Your outfits get more intriguing every time we cross paths.”

  I hold my ground, feigning aloofness even as my face turns red enough to rival the shade of my hair.

  “As if you’re a maven of fashion.” I narrow my eyes at his attire. “Black t-shirt. Black jeans. Black boots. I’m sensing a theme. What, you afraid a little color will make you less intimidating?”

  “Less?” He takes a purposeful step into my space, then leans in until his mouth is only a handful of inches away. Of their own accord, my thighs squeeze together as I watch that mouth twist into a smirk. “That mean you’re finally admitting you find me intimidating?”

  “No,” I breathe, staring at his lips — God, why can’t I stop staring at his lips? — before I tear my eyes up to his. “Not at all.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  So fast I barely see him coming, he closes the distance between us until our bodies are flush together. I gasp as we collide, as every hard line of his body presses up against my curves in an electrifying impact. It’s a shocking invasion of privacy; an intimate, unsettling embrace.

  I’m instantly furious.

  Not turned on.

  At all.

  No matter that my weak knees and screaming nerve endings might suggest otherwise.

  “So, when I do this…” Luca whispers, his hand landing on the small of my back in the barest of touches. I feel the callused tips of his fingers, light as butterfly wings, against my exposed skin. As with every other time he’s touched me, I find myself marveling at his ability to wield such brutal instruments with unparalleled gentleness. There’s something about a man like Luca, who could crush me without blinking, being tender that damn near kills me.

  “This doesn’t make you nervous?”

  “N-no,” I stammer.

  Shit.

  His index finger trails agonizingly slow up the indentation of my spine, sending shockwaves through my system. When he reaches the strap of my bra he stops, poised at the clasp. One skilled flick of his fingers and I’ll be completely exposed to him.

  Back up! Move away, now! Somewhere in the back of my mind, my last sliver of common sense is screaming. Why aren’t you moving?

  That sensible suggestion is quickly drowned out by a chorus of other voices. Voices that whisper dangerous things.

  It’s been such a terrible week…

  You’ve been so stressed…

  His hands will feel so good…

  He can help you forget…

  You’ve wanted him for so long…

  Luca’s mouth lowers toward mine, until we’re practically kissing. I feel my lips part in preparation, in anticipation…

  Blessedly, the dog at my feet lets out a low whine, indignant at our lack of attention. The sound makes me jump. Common sense returns in a flash.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss, pulling out of his grip and backpedaling away, cursing myself for practically losing my mind. And maybe my bra.

  Luca’s smirk gets even more pronounced. “Proving a point.”

  “And that would be?” I ask, not meeting his eyes.

  He shrugs. “I get close, you get squirrelly. You’re affected by me. Intimidated by me. Admit it.”

  “I’ll admit no such thing.” Clinging to the shredded scraps of my self-respect, I walk stiff-backed across the room and snatch his sweatshirt fr
om the box where I folded it away this morning. The puppy trails in my wake, a tiny red shadow, watching with glossy brown eyes as I slip the garment over my head and yank it down to cover my body.

  “When did you get a dog?” Luca asks, dropping into a crouch and whistling softly. The puppy eyes him for a moment, considering, then charges in his direction at Mach speed. Luca’s big hands ruck his fur as the mongrel yips with pleasure and licks at his downturned face. He laughs, a low sexy sound. The puppy yaps, delighted to have someone to play with.

  I’m not a saint. I will freely admit that, as separate entities, both man and puppy are practically irresistible. Like crack. Or white cheddar popcorn. So, when you pair them together… when you put that adorable ginger puppy alongside the smoking hot red-headed fighter…

  Oh. My. Freaking. God.

  At the sight, my ovaries literally pang, I kid you not. I can barely look at the two of them wrestling on my bedroom floor without melting into a puddle of estrogen. Motionless, I stare at them, not even realizing I haven’t answered Luca’s question until his eyes lift to mine. He’s grinning with more joy than I’ve ever seen him express which, in itself, is enough to make it hard to breathe.

  “Babe? Still with me?”

  “Sorry,” I say, shaking myself out of my trance. “He’s not mine. He’s my brother Duncan’s.”

  “Your brother’s here?” The grin disappears.

  “He was, earlier. He was gone when I came home. Probably back to California, or off the grid for good.” I pause. “I thought he took the dog with him, but apparently I was mistaken — a fact I discovered about thirty seconds before you arrived, when I laid down to take a nap and found I wasn’t the only one under the covers.”

  “Ah. That explains the screaming.”

  I nod and walk closer, crouching down so I’m on their level. My hand shakes a bit as I reach out to allow the puppy to lick my knuckles. He does so, with enthusiasm.

  “Hi, buddy,” I whisper. “Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?”

  His tail wags, as if he understands me. I couldn’t stop the smile that tugs my lips up even if I tried. Much as I might like to pretend otherwise, I am not immune to the canine cuteness factor.