Take Your Time (A Boston Love Story Book 4)

by Julie Johnson

  I open my mouth to protest again — even though he’s right, much as it pains me to admit — but my words are cut off when he lifts the helmet and plunks it down on my head without bothering to ask for permission. It rattles around my ears, ridiculously big on me — I tell him so immediately.

  “If you’d just wait a damn minute, I’ll fix it.” With one lip trapped between his teeth in concentration, he grasps the adjustable strap and begins to pull it snug beneath my chin. I stand stock still, staring up at his mouth, trying not to wonder what it would taste like against mine. Pretending not to feel his callused fingertips moving by the hollow of my throat, where my pulse pounds a bit too fast.

  Can he feel it?

  There’s so much power in those hands. Enough to knock a man unconscious, stone cold before his body hits the mats. Enough to crush a windpipe with minimal effort.

  A smarter girl would be afraid to have them so close to her throat, like some inane gazelle who lies down on the prairie and allows a cheetah to lick her. A smarter girl would say thanks but no thanks, I’ll wait for a cab.

  I suppose that makes me the stupidest girl alive, because I just stand there watching him with wide eyes, barely breathing, attempting to stave off a heart attack.

  As with everything, Luca tackles this task with methodical precision, his large fingers nimble and unhurried as they make adjustments to the straps. I want to snap, hurry up, already, it’s painful to have you this close to me! But since that would further undermine my attempts to act aloof and unaffected, I refrain.

  After an eternity, he finally finishes fiddling with the helmet. He takes a step back to view his handiwork, a small crease appearing between his eyes as he examines me.

  “How’s it feel?”

  With a martyred sigh, I shake my head to test the fit. The helmet still shifts a bit, but it’s much tighter than before.

  “Looks good.” Luca nods his approval.

  I scoff. “I look like a bobble-head. Or Darth Vader.”

  He just blinks at me.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a Star Wars nerd, that’s all.”

  “I’m not a nerd,” I insist, pausing a beat before adding. “You can be a fan of the intergalactic empire without being a nerd.”

  His brows lift in amusement.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Didn’t say anything.”

  I scoff. “You, Luca Buchanan, say more with a single facial expression than most men ever say out loud.”

  His eyes glitter with interest. “Been watching me, babe?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Sounds like you have.”

  “Can we just get on the damn bike now?”

  “In a minute.”

  I screech in frustration. “When I resist the bike, you insist I climb on; the minute I want to leave, you decide it’s time for a chat. Make up your mind — indecisiveness isn’t attractive in a man.”

  His lips don’t just twitch, this time — they tug up into a full-on smile. And, damn, it’s so sexy I nearly keel over at the sight.

  “That your problem with me, Delilah?” He leans closer, bringing those bottomless blue eyes within a foot of my face. “Don’t think I’m decisive enough for you? Should I show you just how decisive I can be?”

  Um… Danger!

  “Who says I have a problem with you?” I hedge, a little breathless.

  “I do.”

  “Well…” I swallow hard. “You are wrong.”

  “So it’s all in my imagination,” he says slowly.

  “Totally.”

  “Uh huh.” His eyes narrow. “So, you’re saying I’m off base about the fact that every time I decide to make an appearance at a party, you’re miraculously busy that night.”

  “I’m a busy girl.”

  “Oh, I bet you are.” He stares at my mouth for prolonged second. “And I suppose I’m hallucinating all those times you bolted from a room as soon as I walked into it.”

  “Coincidence,” I say sweetly.

  “And the fact that you’re the most polished, put together woman I’ve ever seen, until you catch sight of me and suddenly can’t walk straight or talk in complete sentences?”

  My cheeks heat. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

  “And the fact that you’ve known me upwards of six months now, but refuse to save my number in your phone?”

  “My storage is full.”

  “But you’ve somehow got room for the number of every pizza delivery place in the city.”

  “Did you go through my phone the other night, when you dropped me off?” I hiss. “How did you know my password?”

  “You handed it to me and told me to order you an Uber and a pizza, not necessarily in that order.” He shrugs unapologetically. “Opportunity knocked. I answered.”

  “I don’t remember any of this.”

  “Do you remember the bottle of tequila that preceded it?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “So, you figured you’d just have a little peek through my cellphone. Without permission.”

  “Call me curious.”

  “There are a few other choice things I’d like to call you, actually!” I’m so steaming mad, I’d stomp my foot if I weren’t wearing this outfit. “That’s a total invasion of privacy! You had no right to do that!”

  “We can talk about that later. Right now, we’re talking about the fact that you’ve been avoiding me for half a year, despite the fact that I’ve never done shit to warrant it.”

  “Well, I want to talk about it now! You can’t just go into a girl’s purse, let alone her phone. That’s a sacred space. Like church. Or the lobby of Tiffany & Co.”

  “Don’t know what the fuck that means. Don’t want to know, either.” Luca leans even closer. “Care to share why you act like I’ve got some kind of contagious disease every time you see me?”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “Oh, really?” His eyes darken. “Don’t think I am, babe. Nate tells me you always check with Phoebe to see if I’ll be somewhere, specifically so you can avoid bumping into me.”

  I startle, thrown off balance by that revelation.

  He’s been asking around about me?

  “Well?” he demands, impatient as ever.

  “Hearsay,” I insist, my voice somewhat less convincing.

  “Uh huh.” Luca shakes his head like he knows I’m totally full of shit. His eyes are divided as they scan my face — half-frustrated, half-intrigued. “Must’ve damn near killed you to call me tonight.”

  “I have a strong constitution,” I murmur weakly.

  For a moment, staring down at me, his eyes churn with thoughts I can’t figure out. He seems to make up his mind about something, though, because all the frustration melts out of his expression, leaving behind a determined look I recognize — it’s the same one he wears just before he steps into the octagon for one of his matches. Equal parts take-no-prisoners and winner-takes-all.

  I don’t know what it means in regard to me, but I’m guessing the answer is nothing good. My heart starts pounding double-time.

  Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

  Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap.

  He smiles again — god damn, I wish he’d stop doing that so close to me — and leans in, taking clear notice of the way my whole body goes tense in response. I think, for a crazy instant, that he might kiss me.

  Which would be bad.

  Terrible.

  Awful.

  Right?

  Instead, with a gentleness that makes my pulse stutter, his hand finds mine in the darkness. Slowly, one digit at a time, he uncurls my fingers from the plastic baggie still clutched in my white-knuckled grip. I hadn’t even realized I was still holding it.

  “Let me worry about this,” Luca murmurs, tucking the parcel under his arm and walking over to the bike, as if he hasn’t just given me premature heart palpitations. “You just worry about holding on.” He throws one leg over th
e Ducati, then glances back at me, eyes shining in the dark. “Tight.”

  It’s official.

  I am so screwed.

  Luca wasn’t lying — we drive back to the city so fast, I’m certain we’re nothing but a blur of color to the few people actually out on the streets at this hour. Which, I must say, is a good thing, since my skirt spends the majority of the ride hiked up around my waist, leaving my entire bottom half exposed.

  At this speed, there’s no choice but to follow Luca’s directions and hold him tighter than a girl with a glass of chilled chardonnay at happy hour after a mind-numbing work week. It’s more than a little disconcerting to be pressed up against him — my boobs squished against the broad planes of his back, my arms wrapped tight around his waist, my fingers locked together against each steely indentation of his abdominal muscles. It’s enough to make a girl dizzy. (Don’t you dare judge me: the man has an eight-pack, for god’s sake, and I’m only human.)

  I’m so focused on not falling off — and not wriggling inappropriately against Luca’s back — that it takes me a while to realize we’ve flown past the exit that’ll take us to Beacon Hill and are instead winding our way slowly through a labyrinth of North End streets, tangled like the plates of pasta their restaurants are so famous for.

  “Hey!” I yell into Luca’s ear. “This isn’t my neighborhood.”

  In a shocking turn of events, he ignores me.

  “Luca, I mean it. My apartment is the other direction.”

  No response.

  “Luca Buchanan!”

  We jolt to a stop near the curb so suddenly, my whole body slams full-frontal into his back. Thankfully, the man is made of stone, so I don’t fall off the motorcycle on my face. I’m still reeling from the impact when he dismounts and lifts me down onto the sidewalk with laughably little effort. As soon as he sets me on my feet, I yank my skirt back into place and glare up at him from beneath the rim of the bulbous helmet.

  “Was the manhandling necessary?” I snap.

  He shrugs.

  “I’m perfectly capable of getting off a motorcycle by myself. Last time I checked, I have two functioning legs.”

  His eyes flicker down to the aforementioned limbs, lingering on the sight of my thigh-high garters. Clearing my throat, I smooth my hands over my skirt.

  “It’s 2017 — women can do all types of things. We can drive and vote and work and raise babies alone and travel the world and boss people around. We can be superheroes and CEOs. Hell, we can even become men, if we want.”

  His brows arch sardonically.

  “Not that I want to become a man,” I mutter hurriedly, feeling my cheeks start to flame again. “I’m just saying, if I wanted to, I could. The option’s there. That’s all.”

  Luca again says nothing.

  I fight the urge to scream. Or bite off my own tongue, to stop my string of babble. At times like this, I often find myself wishing I kept a cyanide capsule handy in a false tooth. Without that option, I take a deep breath and try to sound calm and collected.

  (Operative word being try.)

  “Where are we, Luca? Moreover, why are we here? Furthermore… are you planning to take me home anytime soon, or am I going to have to hijack your bike? I promise, that won’t end well — for me or the bike.”

  He shows no reaction except a slight flare of amusement in his eyes.

  “What, are you suddenly mute?” I plant my hands on my hips and glare harder. I’m sure it would be more intimidating without the helmet.

  He reaches up and scratches at his stubble in an unhurried gesture. “Figured you were babbling enough for the both of us, might as well let you get it out of your system.”

  I do scream, this time. “I asked you to take me home. Not to bring me to some random building in the North End and taunt me with your taciturnity.”

  He gives no reaction, besides another slight shrug. Getting desperate, I try a different tactic.

  “Look, it’s four in the morning. The sun is rising. In the past twenty-four hours I’ve struggled through a massive hangover, a boss who gives new meaning to the term hands-on, a high speed chase, a two-hour interrogation, and a highly-informative sex talk with a hooker in a holding cell. I’m dressed in something an anime character would find risqué. My feet hurt from these heels, I’m so hungry I would happily eat that flattened gum off the sidewalk if I thought it might curb my appetite, and I’m so tired, I could sleep soundly in that gutter — which, funnily enough, actually may end up being my new home in a few days, if I don’t sort things out financially. My iPhone is missing, my wallet is empty, and I’m officially out of whatever patience I once possessed. So, while I appreciate you coming to my rescue, getting me out of there, posting my bail… all of it…Please, for the love of god, please… just take me home, Luca.”

  My voice breaks on his name and my mouth snaps shut with a click of my teeth.

  Crap.

  I hadn’t realized just how overtired and overwrought I was until the words started pouring out. I hadn’t meant to reveal all those things — and certainly not to him — but once I began, there was no stopping the torrent of pent-up angst.

  Luca stares at me and his eyes flicker through a series of emotions so fast I can’t sort them out. He settles on a guarded look I can’t read at all.

  “First, not a random building. I live here.” He jerks his head at the brick five-story building behind us, built on a long wharf sticking out over the harbor. “Second, there’s a difference between being a straight shooter and a mute. I don’t make a habit of wasting my breath on bullshit, babe. You’ll just have to get used to that.” I open my mouth to retort, but he isn’t finished. “Third, you’re right about the sun rising soon, so we’re going inside before my neighbors start waking up and wondering why I’m fighting with a French maid in the middle of the sidewalk.”

  “But—”

  “Delilah.” He cuts me off before I can object. “You just rattled off a whole list of problems, including being tired and hungry and I’m guessing a bit freaked too, even if you don’t feel like admitting it. I know for a fact you wanna go home, that you don’t wanna be with anyone right now, after the shit you’ve been through tonight, let alone me.” He pauses. “But I also know from dropping you off after your bachelorette bender that you’ve got a house full of moving boxes, you’re sleeping on an air mattress, and there is exactly zero food in your fridge.”

  I gasp. “You snooped!”

  “Damn right I snooped,” he returns without missing a beat.

  “That is not gentlemanly.”

  “Did I ever claim to be a gentleman?”

  I huff.

  No. He certainly hadn’t.

  His eyes narrow. “You wanna explain what the fuck is going on with you, why your apartment suddenly looks like a storage facility?”

  I jerk my chin, jaw locked.

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he mutters. “You can act all prissy and you can yell till you’re blue in the face. I’m not taking you home to that empty apartment until you’re fed and warm and feeling like yourself again. That means pancakes and a hot shower.”

  “You can’t just—”

  “I can just.”

  “This is none of your business!” I practically screech.

  “You called me. You invited me into this. You made it my business, babe, second I dragged my ass out of bed at three in the morning to bail you out. So you’re gonna let me make the rules for a little while, until this is sorted.” His voice gets growly. “That includes getting into the shit you said concerning your touchy-feely boss, who we are gonna have a talk about later, I promise you that.”

  My mouth gapes. “This is my life! These are my problems! You can’t just storm in and take over like some bossy, macho, knight-in-shining-armor with a god complex—”

  His eyes glitter. “Thing you should know about me, Delilah?”

  “I told you not to call me that,” I grumble. “No one calls me that.”


  Not anymore.

  He carries on as if he hasn’t heard me. “I see a problem, I fix it. Give me a few minutes, I promise I can fix the majority of yours. The rest…” He shrugs. “Those might take a little longer, but we’ll get them sorted too. You just have to give me time.”

  “But—this—I—”

  Stepping to my side, he reaches out, unhooks the helmet from beneath my chin, and pulls it off. His hand deftly brushes a few messy strands of hair away from my face, then drops to the small of my back. I’m so startled by his touch, I lose my train of thought… and before I can locate it again, a wave of exhaustion crashes through me.

  Suddenly, I’m too tired to fight, too tired to think of all the reasons this is a bad idea as he leads me away from his bike, toward the entrance of his pretty brick-faced building with gardens I can see, even in the pre-dawn light, are bursting with summer blooms.

  The scent of lilacs and peonies invades my head as we float past. I try to focus on their beauty, instead of the fact that I’m about to be alone with Luca Buchanan inside his apartment, wearing something so skimpy the Kardashians would object, struggling to remember all the reasons it would be terrible to throw myself at him like a heat-seeking missile.

  You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Delilah.

  Chapter Four

  I should probably eat healthier, but Adam and Eve once ate a single apple and doomed all of humanity, so…

  Delilah Sinclair, contemplating a second doughnut.

  I don’t know where I expected a man like Luca to spend his nights, but it was not a place like this. Somehow, I pictured him living somewhere mega macho, all concrete and steel, with punching bags hanging from the ceiling and a sparring mannequin propped in the middle of the living room and maybe one of those deliciously entertaining salmon ladders that Stephen Amell is always making me drool over during episodes of Arrow.