(Okay, so that last one was more a fantasy than an actual guess, but I never claimed to be a saint.)
A girl can dream, right?
Half of me just assumed Luca slept at the gym, he’s there so often. Not that I’ve devoted an abnormal amount of time contemplating his sleeping arrangements, or anything. Because that would be weird and obsessive and vaguely stalker-like.
What was I saying?
Oh, right. Luca’s place isn’t what I was expecting at all. When it comes to architecture, I’m not easily wowed — probably a product of my unflinchingly upper-class upbringing on Nantucket. But one look around his space…
Wow.
Either working for Knox Investigations pays better than I thought, or he’s been raking it in from his recent winning streak.
Occupying a large top-floor end unit in the North End’s historic Battery Wharf, he’s got wall-to-wall windows that look out over the harbor, clear across to East Boston. Epic views of the ever-paling sky assault my eyes from every room as soon as we step over the threshold. I squint as I take it all in — open plan, loads of exposed brick, soaring beamed ceilings. It’s both quintessentially New England and a certified bachelor pad.
The kitchen and breakfast nook have been totally renovated in clean white marble; the main living space is sparsely furnished with a row of sturdy bookshelves and simple, efficient wood pieces in muted tones. I note the minimal artwork on the walls; the lack of a single non-essential piece of decor.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Luca Buchanan doesn’t do superfluous — not in his relationships or his communication style or, evidently, his living quarters.
The bamboo floors are unadorned by rugs or carpeting, stained so dark they’re nearly ebony. There’s a large gray sectional on the left, set in front of a massive wall-mounted television and entertainment system. Doors lead off the main room in either direction.
It’s beautiful, but feels very un-lived-in. Like a condo you put on the market, professionally staged by an interior designer in the hopes it’ll sell quicker.
“Kitchen, living room, patio’s out there,” Luca says, gesturing around as he flicks on a recessed track of lights over the breakfast bar. It’s still pretty dark — the sun is flirting with the sky, but hasn’t quite committed to rising yet. “Pantry, laundry, storage closets, the basics. Bathroom’s through there.” He points at the door to the left of the kitchen. “And that’s my bedroom.” He jerks his head toward the set of slightly ajar French doors to the right.
I wonder what his bed looks like. Judging from the rest of this place, it wouldn’t surprise me to discover he sleeps on a wooden pallet like a monk. If I had more energy, I’d cross the room to find out, but my feet have ceased cooperating with my brain. Heady waves of fatigue are crashing through me, growing stronger with each passing moment. I’m actually swaying on my feet; I may collapse if he doesn’t offer me a seat soon.
He glances at me and seems to read the utter weariness in my features, because a small crease of concern appears between his eyes.
“Sit down before you fall down,” he orders gently, jerking his head in the direction of the couch. “I’ll make you something to eat.”
I decide it’s probably best not to argue with him. Faking composure I don’t feel, I walk across the room with long-legged strides. My heels click like gunshots against the hardwood with each step.
God, my arches ache.
I swear, I’m not usually a sissy about heels. In fact, I’m kind of a stickler when it comes to my footwear, giving even Phoebe — and her extensive collection of Louboutins — a run for her money. (Not literally though, because running in heels is super difficult. That Jurassic World actress is my hero.)
I wear pumps almost every day of the week, even when I’m going somewhere mundane like the grocery store or the coffee shop around the corner. I’m not the kind of girl who goes to a wedding and takes her stilettos off to dance more comfortably, either. Heck, I don’t even own a pair of wedges because, if I’m going to go to all the trouble of wearing heels, you can bet your ass they won’t be made of cork, thank you very much.
My mother raised me to believe that taking one’s shoes off in public is tantamount to going commando at church on Sunday. More than impolite — such an insult to proper society, you’d be hard pressed to convince her that bare feet aren’t just as bad as a bare ass.
Delilah, if you’re going to wear heels, be prepared to wear them until you get home, she used to say, while I watched her pack her suitcase for yet another business trip. If you can’t commit to seeing something through to completion, why bother starting it at all?
Silly or not, her long-recited rules stuck in my head. I fear that saying about old dogs and new tricks is accurate, because it’s far too late to change my ways at this point. My toes could be bleeding, you still won’t catch me barefoot at a stranger’s house.
Even now, as I sit down on Luca’s heavenly soft sectional, feet screaming for release after two straight days of imprisonment, I can’t bring myself to kick them off. I sit on the edge of the cushion, back ramrod straight, staring out at the streaks of pink slowly appearing on the horizon. Maybe it’s stubborn, but keeping them on feels like my last act of defiance, the last shred of dignity I can still cling to without losing myself completely.
I hear Luca moving around in the kitchen behind me — cabinets opening and closing, the gas range clicking on, a spoon scraping the side of a mixing bowl. Every once in a while, I feel the weight of his eyes on me, but I keep my focus directed at the sunrise as the minutes tick by.
I’m thinking of asking to borrow two toothpicks to prevent my eyelids from drooping closed when my line-of-sight is cut off by the appearance of a white t-shirt. My gaze tracks slowly over a truly impressive set of abs, past a broad plane of pectoral muscle, along the tanned column of a throat, and finally up to meet the eyes of the man looming over me.
“What?” I whisper, craning my neck. I’m too tired to stand.
He doesn’t say a thing as he crouches down to my level. I open my mouth to ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing, but I’m stunned silent as he reaches toward me. I flinch back, startled, but his hands never hesitate as he pulls off my heels. First the right, then the left, leaving me in just my stocking feet.
“What— why—”
I swallow my questions as he sets the heels aside without a word. They click dully against the floor as he puts them down.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, voice breathy.
With exhaustion, I tell myself. Not anticipation.
There’s nothing to anticipate.
Because nothing is going to happen between us.
Obviously.
Gulp.
Luca’s eyes hold mine for a suspended moment. I can’t help but suck in a sharp, surprised breath when I feel him take my right foot into his hands. With expert technique, his thumbs begin to stroke my sore insteps, working the cramped arches like a professional masseuse. It feels so good, I have to physically bite down on my tongue to keep from moaning out loud.
Luca Buchanan is giving me a foot rub.
And I’m letting him.
The thoughts are too strange to fathom, so I shove them away and focus on the feeling of his hands. His touch is at once purely platonic and shockingly intimate. It’s strange — I know I should be objecting, I know I should be putting up a fuss about the fact that he’s crossing this line… but I can’t vocalize a single protest.
My body has betrayed me. My thigh muscles clench tight together beneath my laughable skirt; my back bows involuntarily under the sensation of his fingers, until my cleavage challenges the confines of my lace-lined bodice. There’s no way he doesn’t notice the effect he’s having on me — not when he’s this close, staring at me with such intent focus you’d think he was memorizing my face to describe for a sketch artist.
Undeniable lust stirs inside me, like the first rumblings of a long-dormant volcano. I haven’t been touched
by a man in months, not since my life fell to pieces. The feel of his hands on me after an uncharacteristically long dry spell is stoking embers of attraction into a steady flame of need.
Tell him to stop, a small voice pleads from the back of my mind. Tell him thank you and pull away, before this escalates from purely therapeutic to something very, very different.
The voice falls silent as his Luca rolls his knuckles against the ball of my foot. I bite the inside of my cheek to hold in an embarrassing mewling sound, wishing I could escape his unflinching gaze. It would be far less intimate if he’d look away, but he doesn’t — he keeps his eyes on mine the entire time, even after he switches to work the kinks from my left foot. When his fingers trace along the delicate bones of my ankle, static and sensual through the friction of my stockings, I feel an undeniable bolt of desire spark along the nerve endings from my toes straight between my thighs.
Holy. Fuck.
I can’t remember the last time anyone did this for me. Maybe never, if I’m being honest. I’m usually in such a rush to leave the morning after I’ve slept with someone, there’s no time for things like cuddling or massages. Whenever possible, I avoid the unsettling intimacy of such couple-like activities — it makes it easier, when I inevitably decide to end things a few weeks later.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
I fully realize, if I weren’t so exhausted, I’d probably be freaking out right now. But it feels too good to stop. He feels too good to stop.
Luca rolls my ankle in an achingly slow circle. The effort to hold in a moan is making my eyes water. A crazy, reckless thought pops into my mind as I stare down at him with glossy eyes, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.
How easy it would be to open my knees, just a sliver…
To reach for him with shaky fingers…
To pull him down on top of me on this comfortable couch…
To see how those skilled hands feel on other parts of my body…
Retreat! Retreat!
Sensing the danger in my own shockingly vivid visualizations, I yank my ankle from his grip and scramble to my feet. Before he can react, I take several purposeful strides away from the couch, putting some much needed distance between us.
Not that I don’t trust myself.
Ha! Who am I kidding?
I totally don’t trust myself.
When I glance back at Luca, breathing hard, I see his eyes are simmering with humor and something else — something that makes me want to run straight back to my jail cell in Mattapan, where I’d be safely separated from him by a wall of impenetrable steel bars.
His lips twitch, as if he can read exactly what’s going on inside my mind, so I plant my hands on my hips and school my face into what I hope is a mask of total composure. As if my pulse isn’t pounding double time. As if my toes aren’t pressed firmly against the wood floor in a vain attempt to ground me back in reality.
“Thank you for…” I swallow hard, undeniably flustered. “For… that.”
Crap on a toasted croissant.
He full-on smirks at my discomfort, the bastard.
“Wasn’t finished, babe.”
“Well, I was,” I mutter in a flat voice.
“Whatever you say.” He shrugs, still half-smiling as his eyes drop to my toes and slowly scan their way up my body until they’re back on mine. “Never seen you without the heels.”
“And?”
His lips twitch. “You’re short.”
“I’m not short,” I insist immediately.
“Shorter than I thought you were.”
“Well, your thoughts are pretty far from reality, I think we’ve already established that fact.”
His eyes gleam with mirth. “Maybe it’s time you fill me on what really happened last night, then. Because I gotta tell you… the French maid outfit isn’t helping me stay in touch with reality. If anything, it’s making my fantasies run wild.”
I suck in a sharp pull of air. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh?” he steps closer. “And what, exactly, do I think? Since you’re somehow privy to my private thoughts.”
I squirm a little. “You think this is…” I gesture down at the uniform. “That it means…”
His brows lift.
I can’t bring myself to say you probably think I’m a prostitute, so instead I just snap, “You see this and your eyes get all… dirty.”
“Sounds serious.” His lips twist, like he’s suppressing a grin. “Should I be making an appointment with my optometrist?”
I glare at him. “This is a uniform. For a job. An actual, honest-to-god work opportunity.”
“Getting the impression you think I’m judging you.” His eyes narrow, some of the humor bleeding out of them. “Not my style, babe. Don’t care how you dress or what you do for a living.”
“Well, the officers who pulled me over certainly did.” I run my fingers through my tangled hair, wishing I had a brush handy. It’s probably for the best that I’ve managed to avoid mirrors, since my incarceration. “I’m almost positive they thought I was a call girl.”
Luca’s lips twitch again. “But a high class one, seeing as you were driving a stolen Bentley.”
“Borrowed! A borrowed Bentley,” I insist.
“Uh huh.” He shakes his head at me. “Borrowed…without permission. And, apparently, drove at nearly a hundred miles per hour through a red light. In front of a parked cop. Carrying an expired license.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, eyes wide.
“The cop who pulled you over filled me in, before we left the precinct.”
“Officer McBangMe? More like Officer McBlabberMouth,” I mutter.
Luca’s eyes narrow further. “What was that?”
Shit, I really didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“Nothing,” I lie.
His arms cross over his chest. “You make a habit of grand theft auto, or was this a one-time stunt?”
“It’s wasn’t grand theft auto. Maybe grand borrowing auto. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because the owner of the Bentley won’t press charges.”
“And you know that how, exactly?”
“I just do,” I murmur noncommittally.
“Delilah.”
“Luca.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what happened.”
“Who says I need your help?”
He stares me down.
Okay, so there’s a chance I might need his help.
Whatever.
“Didn’t you promise me pancakes?” I hedge, desperate for a break.
“Fine. We’ll eat.” He pins me with a serious look. “But we’re not done with this shit.”
“Honestly, I think I’d rather relive the sex tip session with my cellmate Destiny than continue this conversation,” I mutter under my breath.
He hears me. Of course.
“Tell you what,” he tosses over his shoulder as he strides toward the kitchen. “You miss your cellmate so much, I’ll make you a deal — describe, in detail, exactly what happened last night, and I’ll drive you straight back to jail afterward. Sound good?”
I roll my eyes at his back.
Honestly, fighting with this man is a waste of breath. He hears exactly what he wants to hear and nothing more. He always gets what he wants, in the end, because he’s utterly relentless. Non-negotiable.
I should storm out of here in a huff, just to make a point. Just to show him he can’t boss me around, or intimidate me with his macho shenanigans.
I really should.
Except, he did make breakfast. So…
I suppose I can delay storming out. Temporarily.
I suppose I can stay and endure his interrogation for a bit longer. Because… pancakes.
Should I be concerned with the fact that breakfast takes clear priority over my sense of pride? Perhaps. But I’m too ravenous to care. It’s been upwards of twenty-four hours since I last ate; I’ve sailed past salad-for-dinne
r hungry and gone straight to day-three-of-a-juice-cleanse starving.
Following Luca across the room in only my stockings — sorry, Mom — I take a seat at the nearest barstool while he washes his hands and grabs two plates from an overhead cabinet. Sliding one in front of me, he settles his large frame on the stool directly across from mine and lifts the lid on the warming platter to reveal a giant stack of perfect, golden pancakes.
I feel my mouth fill with saliva as I stare at them. They’re still steaming, they smell orgasmic, and they look absolutely delicious — soft and buttery, exactly the kind of food my friend Shelby, health nut and personal-trainer, would have a heart attack if she ever saw me consuming. Honestly, you’d think gluten was a biochemical weapon, the way she describes it.
Luca loads up our plates and I barely wait a beat before dumping a dollop of syrup on top of my stack, hacking off a huge multi-layered wedge, and shoving it into my mouth with gusto. Not my most ladylike move of all time — my cheeks puff out and my jaw threatens to unhinge as I chew the massive bite.
Luca watches me struggling to swallow and snorts.
“Don’t worry, I know the Heimlich Maneuver if necessary.”
In the words of Stephanie Tanner: how rude!
As delicately as possible — which, let’s be honest, is not very — I swallow down the rest of the bite. Just to get him back for teasing me, I drop my fork with a clatter against the marble counter and make a big show of twisting my features into a mask of shock.
“Oh!” I gasp, eyes wide.
“What is it?” he asks, immediately on high alert.
“You didn’t…” I wheeze. “…put banana…” I lock my jaw. “…in these…” I clutch at my throat. “…did you?”
His brows pull together. “Yeah, why?”
Fake choking like my first Academy Award for Best Actress in a Mediocre Prank depends on it, I thrash a bit on my stool and hiss, “I’m… deathly…allergic…”
“Shit!” Luca leaps to his feet, races around the counter, and grabs me by the shoulders before I can blink. In less than a second I’m off my stool, wrapped in the span of his arms, and he’s staring down at my features in blind panic.
Take Your Time (A Boston Love Story Book 4) Page 6
