“And you’re stuck with me,” I murmur, stroking his ears. “Sorry about that, in advance.”
When I feel the weight of a stare, I glance up and find Luca watching me with a strange look in his eyes. We’re alarmingly close — a foot or so apart, separated only by the furry, four-legged body between us.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a nothing kind of look, Luca.”
He shrugs. “You’ve got a gentleness about you, underneath all that fire. Knew you could be kind; never knew you were sweet, though.”
“I’m not sweet,” I deny immediately. “Sassy, maybe. But definitely not sweet.”
“Beg to differ, babe.”
“What did I say about calling me that?”
He smiles, slow and sinful. “You want, I’ll come up with some other things to call you. Doubt you’ll like them any better.”
Retreat!
“Or you could just call me Lila, like everyone else on the planet.”
“Thing is, though…” He leans in an inch and I swear, the air starts humming with palpable tension. “I don’t want to be like everyone else. Not when it comes to you.”
Fall back! All units, fall back!
I push to my feet so I have an excuse to stop staring at him, taking a series of deep breaths that do absolutely nothing to calm my thundering heartbeat.
“What are you doing here? Besides picking locks and harassing me?”
He stands to full height, towering over me. The puppy is cradled in his arms, an adorably soft contrast to the corded strength of Luca’s bicep muscles.
Do not start drooling. Do not start drooling. Do not start drooling.
As I watch, Luca transfers the puppy to a single arm, so he’s cradled like a football, and reaches into his back pocket to retrieve a slim smartphone. I recognize the cherry red Kate Spade case instantly.
“That’s mine!” I exclaim, blinking at him as he offers it to me. “Where on earth did you get it?”
He’s silent.
My eyes lock on his suddenly guarded ones. “Please tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”
“Seeing as I’m not a mind reader…”
“Luca Buchanan!”
His brows lift.
“Tell me you did not drive to an octogenarian’s house — which, for the record, I’m not even sure how you found, considering I never told you where it was — for the sole purpose of retrieving my cellphone.”
He holds my stare calmly. “I did not drive there to get your cellphone back.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. (Prematurely, it turns out, because Luca isn’t finished speaking.)
“I drove there to have a little chat with the elderly fucker about the meaning of professionalism as it pertains to his female employees. Specifically, about how he needs to keep his goddamned hands to his goddamned self whenever he’s around those employees, or he won’t have any functioning hands left to grope with by the time I’m through with him.” He shrugs. “Getting your cellphone back was just convenient, since I was already there.”
“What the fu—”
“Also,” he adds softly. “On my drive back, I swung by the Mattapan precinct. Had a nice chat with the officers who pulled you over the other night. They won’t be pursuing any charges for reckless driving, or anything else.”
“But—”
“And lastly.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick envelope. “This. Your pay for cleaning that bastard’s house, plus the two weeks’ severance he owes you for creating unsuitable working conditions that cost you an employment opportunity. And possibly a little something extra, as payment for me not putting my foot up his ass.” Luca’s grin has a dark edge, but his eyes are swimming with warmth. “Should be enough there to tide you over, for a while at least. Give you some time to figure things out.”
I stare at him, unblinking. Letting all he’s done crash into me like a wave. My hands curl into fists as I struggle to contain the tide of emotions welling up inside me. Try as I might to push them down, to force them back into the confines of my heart where they cannot escape, I can’t seem to contain them. It’s too much.
He’s too much.
“I…” I suck in a tremulous breath. “Luca, I…you… this…” I can’t form words. They’re sticking in my throat like glue, a tangle of fury and gratitude and utter disbelief blocking my airway and making articulation impossible.
His brows go up in question.
“I cannot believe you!” I explode, finally finding my voice. “You are the most impossible, stubborn, pigheaded, overbearing caveman I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting! Making decisions without ever bothering to check what anyone else might want!”
My eyes are stinging precariously and there’s an odd break in my voice I barely recognize. I try to focus on Luca, but it’s like he’s not even there anymore. Like I’m speaking to someone else entirely, someone who isn’t here to take the brunt of my frustration because he bailed on me. Again.
“This is really over the top, even for you! God, what were you thinking? Were you thinking? I mean, honestly, did you even consider the repercussions of your actions? The circumstance this would put me in?” I laugh, but it comes out sounding strangely like a sob. “No, of course not. You just show up here, barging in completely uninvited, may I add, and leave me to pick up all the pieces of the mess you made! And don’t even get me started on the freaking dog! I don’t even know what to do with a dog. I’ve never had a pet. The Sinclairs never wanted the commitment of an animal. Noooo, that would be terrible! You can’t take off on a spontaneous trip to Europe when you have a dog, now can you? Feel free to leave the kids behind though, they can feed and water themselves.”
“Delilah—”
“No! No. Don’t Delilah me in that soft voice that says everything is going to be all right. Don’t come in here and tell me that everything is fixable. It’s not true!”
The sane part of me recognizes that this rant has nothing to do with Luca, that it’s entirely about my shithead big brother, that I’m lashing out at the wrong man for no sensible reason at all… but I can’t seem to stop. It’s as though I am a bystander in my own body, watching the chaos unfold but unable to do anything about it.
“I mean, how is it all right he left me with a dog?! A freaking puppy. What do I feed it? How often does it have to pee? What do I do if it gets sick? How am I going to take care of it when I can’t even take care of my damn self? Do I have to get it tennis balls? Where do you even buy tennis balls? And why is it always looking at me with those damn puppy eyes!?” I glare at the dog in Luca’s arms. “Yes, boy, I’m talking to you! You are a boy, right? I don’t even know, not for sure. How would I? He just left you here. Left me here. No money, no options. We’re gonna be homeless, pup, sorry to inform you! Maybe we can share a cardboard box in the alley out back, what do you say to that? Huh, Fido?”
Something wet falls onto my bare foot. I flinch at the impact and glance down, surprised to see a tiny droplet of water on my skin. For a ludicrous moment, I consider the possibility that it’s actually started raining inside my apartment… before I realize I’m crying.
Huge, ugly, unstoppable tears are rolling down my cheeks.
I don’t know when they started but now that they have, there’s no stopping them. All the fear and frustration and sadness and desperation I’ve spent weeks pushing down, compartmentalizing into a tiny box in the back of my mind so I don’t go crazy from the stress of it all, have burst forth in an incontrovertible flood.
Horrified, I glance up at Luca, prepared to apologize for my outburst, attempting to think up some way to explain myself without sounding like a total nutcase. The look in his eyes stops me cold.
There’s a soft, sad expression on his face. Tenderness mixed with sympathy, tempered by that familiar Buchanan determination that says the rules governing average men don’t apply to him. It’s the kind of face you might make if you saw an an
imal hit by a car, bleeding out in the street… wanting to help but not knowing how, or whether any of your efforts would even matter, since the poor creature is already so far gone. And yet, attempting regardless, because you can’t leave it there to die alone.
I can read his eyes as clearly as a billboard.
Let me save you.
Let me at least try.
Even if it’s a lost cause.
That expression, on Luca’s face? It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. More frightening than watching him pummel a man into mincemeat in a sweaty gym; infinitely more terrifying than the look of molten desire he gave me earlier, the one that told me in no uncertain terms what he’d like to do with me after catching sight of my lingerie.
“Luca…” My whisper is so fractured by mortification, I can barely form the word. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t about you. None of it. I just…”
“Shhh,” he breathes, giving a slight shake of his head. “I know.”
Moving slower than I’ve ever seen him, with a kind of measured deliberateness that makes my insides quake and my tears flow faster, he sets the dog down by our feet with a gentle plop, then takes three steps and closes the distance between us. I’m rooted to the ground, stiller than a statue as he reaches up with those big, powerful hands and slides them into the thick mane of hair at the nape of my neck.
Such a simple gesture, to stir so many complicated feelings into life.
I suck in a breath as soon as he touches me — I can’t help it. It’s an involuntary reaction to his hands on my skin, like sticking a fork inside a socket and getting zapped by an electrical charge that singes your very bones.
Eyes never shifting from mine, he exerts a tiny amount of pressure on my neck — not even enough to move me. A slight, tactile message that requires no words.
Come here.
His hold is so light, I could easily shrug him off if I wanted. I could fight his grip, could walk away, could throw up that wall I always erect between us, whenever things get too close for comfort, as I’ve always in the past.
But I don’t have any fight left in me.
I fall into his chest like water into paper; he absorbs me effortlessly, taking on my physical weight as well as the emotional burden of my meltdown. As soon as my forehead finds the hollow of his throat, where his pulse beats strong and steady as a battle drum, I feel myself let go. Of everything. All the rage and hopelessness. All the sleepless nights and quick-bitten fingernails. All the sold-off treasures and dead-end interviews.
My defenses fall one by one, obliterated by the weight of my own exhaustion.
No retreat.
No recalculation.
No retaliation.
Nothing except complete, total, irreversible…
Surrender.
A white flag waving on the battlefield of my heart.
My tears flow into Luca’s shirt and his arms come up around me, holding me so close, so warm, so safe, I can barely remember why I’m crying in the first place.
I’ve always had a certain reputation.
I think it comes with the territory — the rich family, the red hair, the unchangeable case of resting bitch face I’ve been plagued with since kindergarten.
You get the picture.
Generally, people who meet me assume I’m a bitch right off the bat, without me ever saying boo to them. This used to bother me. For a while, I thought it was my duty to prove them wrong. To be so sweet and so uncalculating, they’d have no choice but to change their opinion about me.
This phase, as you can probably guess, did not last long.
Because, eventually, I realized it really didn’t matter. Regardless of how hard I worked to change their minds, it’s been my experience that on the whole, people pretty much see exactly what they want to see: cherry-picking new evidence to suit an existing hypothesis, bolstering their belief systems with what fits and discarding the rest. The technical name for this is confirmation bias and, as much as it sucks, most people aren’t even aware they’re doing it, let alone ready and willing to stop.
Hey, don’t blame the messenger. I think it would be sweet if we could all sing kumbaya and accept each other for who we really are. It’s just never in a million years going to happen.
I realized this way back in first grade, when Miss Wilbur announced in front of the entire class that “your redhead’s temper won’t do you any favors in this life, young lady!” after I questioned why the boys got to play soccer at recess while we girls were stuck with sidewalk chalk and boring four-square. At six, I knew that it didn’t really matter how sweetly I phrased my questions or how downcast I kept my gaze. In Miss Wilbur’s eyes, I was already a feisty hothead, simply due to the shade of my hair.
She wasn’t the only one to make this assumption; just the first in a long line. From day one, it seemed like the world wanted me to be a bitch… and that’s exactly what they saw. Whether or not I actually was one held very little bearing on the matter.
So… I decided to embrace her.
The bitch.
The cool girl.
The aloof heiress.
The untouchable queen bee.
It didn’t bother me. The world’s a stage; it seemed as good a role as any. And I was great at playing along.
I played so long, I forgot it was an act.
I danced till dawn. I laughed off my heartbreaks. I gave no fucks. I broke my own rules, and everybody else’s while I was at it. I discontinued my verbal filter and started speaking my mind. And, most importantly, I never, ever, ever let down my guard, even when I was so lonely I thought I might disappear into thin air one day without anyone close enough to notice.
Because bitches, above all, are experts at controlling their emotions.
We aren’t whiny. We’re not open books. We don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves to encourage open, honest communication. We’re certainly not cry-babies.
And yet, here I stand.
A weepy cow — eyes leaking, throat clogged, trembling from the crown of my head to my pedicured toes in Luca’s arms, as my hands curl into fists around the fabric of his shirt. I shake and shiver and sob, unable to stop. And he holds me steady, a safe harbor in the hurricane, a storm cellar keeping me clear of a deadly tornado. Making sure I don’t pull apart into a million pieces at the mercy of the winds.
He doesn’t have to say anything. It’s enough to stand there stoically, stroking my hair in long soothing motions. In silence, he lends me his strength for the moments when mine has fled entirely.
It’s a long while before I finally hiccup myself into a semi-composed state. Pulling in a shaky breath, I step out of his arms and clear my throat.
“I’m— I’m so sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for, babe.”
I laugh miserably. “Thought you were a straight shooter, Buchanan? No need to lie to me. I know I’m a mess. I know I owe you a hell of an apology. God, you came here to help, and I yelled at you…” I trail off, humiliated all over again.
He ducks down so I’m forced to meet his eyes. “Never lied to you before. Don’t plan on starting now. I mean it when I tell you you’ve got nothing to apologize for. Pretty clear to me that you let this build up inside you for so long, it was bound to explode. Happy you finally let it out. Even happier I was the one with you when you did.”
I blink rapidly, afraid his kind words will set me off again. “Still… I feel terrible. You didn’t deserve any of this. All those things I said…”
“I know your brother screwed you over. Know that hurts, babe. Can see the hurt in your eyes every time I look at you.”
I wince and glance away, embarrassed.
His hand finds my chin and he slowly turns my face back to his. There’s no escaping his gaze, not when he’s this close to me.
“Delilah. Something you should know about me by now — but you’ve had a rough day so I’ll cut you some slack and fill you in.”
“What’s that?” I whisper.
�
��I can take it.”
My brows lift in confusion.
“Whatever you wanna throw at me, whatever you need to work out of your system… If you wanna scream or cry or hurl things at a moving target… I can take it. I’m strong enough for anything you got to give, so bring it on. Whatever you need to do to make that anxious blade cutting through you a little less sharp. I’m here for you. I can handle it.”
Shit shit shit shit shit.
His words weave a web of warmth around my heart, and I’m overcome by the craziest urge to pop up onto my tiptoes, to crush my mouth to his and show him, unequivocally, just how much I appreciate that offer, even if it’s one I’ll never take him up on.
I don’t.
I take a deep breath, steady myself, and force myself to whisper, “Thank you, but it’s not your responsibility to save me, Luca.”
“What if I made it mine?” he asks, eyes intent. I get the strangest sensation he’s actually asking something else entirely.
What if I make you mine?
My heart is clanging inside my chest. I swallow roughly. He watches my throat working, eyes simmering with thoughts he doesn’t share. The dark blue rings around his irises are so deep I could drown in them.
“Delilah,” Luca murmurs in a rough voice, his face a hairsbreadth from mine. “Something else you should probably know.”
“What’s that?” I repeat, voice barely audible above my pounding pulse.
“Been wanting to kiss you for six fuckin’ months. Not waiting another second, babe.”
His hands cup my cheeks, he angles my head up to his, and before I can blink, his mouth is on mine.
Chapter Nine
Looking for trouble? Get yourself a redhead.”
Delilah Sinclair, citing nature over nurture as the source of all her problems.
God, he’s a great goddamned kisser.
It’s everything I’ve spent the last few months imagining and yet somehow… better. His lips are playful and passionate, consuming but not crushing as they sweep over mine in a kiss that makes my whole world tilt off-kilter on its already crooked axis.
Take Your Time (A Boston Love Story Book 4) Page 14
