Take Your Time (A Boston Love Story Book 4)

by Julie Johnson

  “I’m never squirrelly!”

  “Babe, you get any squirrelier, I’m afraid I’m gonna find you hoarding acorns for winter.”

  I glare at him. “You’re not funny.”

  “Wasn’t joking.” He steps closer. “Thing is, I’ve got a working theory about why you’re such a spaz whenever I come around. You wanna hear it?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Too bad, I’m in a sharing mood.” His eyes glimmer despite the darkness. “See, at first I figured you just didn’t like me. Weren’t into it. Didn’t feel the attraction. Slight blow to my ego, but I could deal… if that was actually the case.”

  Gulp.

  “But, then, I started watching you. The way your eyes would go all wide whenever you saw me. How you’d never make direct eye contact, or even look at me if you thought I was paying attention, let alone flirt with me, despite the fact that flirting is your varsity sport.”

  I scoff.

  Rude!

  I mean… true… but still rude.

  He leans down to trap my gaze. “So, I got to thinking, maybe all those times you bolted when I came around weren’t ‘cause you weren’t into me. Maybe you acting nervous and flighty and downright off-your-rocker was because of the exact opposite reason.”

  My throat feels tight. “Is there a point to all this hypothesizing, or can I go to bed now?”

  His eyes flash.

  Oh, boy. Taunting him may not have been the best idea.

  He leans close, so close his lips are practically on mine, and hisses.

  “Here’s the point, babe.”

  And then, before I can move or breathe or object, his mouth crashes down in a kiss so intense, it makes my knees shake. I swear, if not for his hands sliding around my waist in a vise, I’d have fallen straight down the stairs with Fenway in my arms, a blur of fur and flailing limbs.

  This kiss is different than our first — stripped of all sweetness. It’s no casual goodbye peck at the end of a first date, no chaste brushing of lips between two almost strangers. No. It’s hard and angry, demanding my unconditional submission. His tongue is domineering as it sweeps into my mouth, an unapologetic invasion, an unequivocal declaration of ownership that doesn’t bother to ask my permission or care to find out whether or not I want to be owned in the first place.

  I should fight back, to convince him he’s wrong about us, but I don’t.

  Hell, I don’t even pretend to fight back.

  As soon as his lips land on mine, my back bows in an arch of desire. I let him ravish my mouth without restraint, not an objector but a willing participant in my own seduction. Lust spikes through me like a hundred degree fever. I’m burning up, so hot I can’t help the muffled cry that comes out as he angles his head down to deepen our kiss.

  Cursing the puppy for monopolizing my hands — which, honestly, would be better served clinging to Luca’s shoulders for dear life — I feel my bones turning to water beneath his touch. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s possible to orgasm from no more than a kiss when abruptly, Luca tears his mouth from mine and pulls away.

  Stepping out of my space so we’re no longer touching at all, his eyes flash with frustration and so much passion, just looking into them makes me want to writhe on the steps of my apartment, in full view of anyone walking by.

  “That,” he hisses furiously, breathing hard, “Is my point, Delilah. You let me know when you’re ready to talk about what it means.”

  He’s gone before I can begin to catch my breath, bounding down the stairs, climbing into his truck, and roaring away from the curb in the time it takes me to summon a single word to my still-tingling lips.

  “Goodnight,” I whisper to no one, as his taillights disappear from view.

  I’m having a great dream, featuring a certain burly redhead, his mouth trailing kisses over my neck… my nose… my cheeks. I’m thinking it may be the best dream I’ve ever had when, strangely, the kisses begin to feel somewhat less sexy and slightly more…

  Slobbery?

  I snap awake.

  Fenway is sitting directly beside my head, licking me with enthusiasm. The entire side of my face, from temple to chin, is covered in drool.

  “Would you stop doing that?!” I exclaim, sitting straight up.

  He doesn’t seem to register my less than enthusiastic reception to his affection. He simply toddles toward me on uncoordinated paws, made even more clumsy by the uneven surface of the air mattress, mouth hanging open in a toothy expression of joy. I didn’t know dogs could grin, but he’s most definitely grinning at me.

  It’s pretty freaking cute, I have to admit.

  “You know, if we could just get the licking under control, this thing between us wouldn’t be so bad,” I inform him, flopping back onto the pillows and reaching out to stroke his ear.

  In response, he starts peeing.

  On my bed.

  Directly beside my head.

  “Fuck!” I yell, scrambling out of bed, seizing him by the sides, and racing for the door. “No, no, no! Bad dog! Bad Fenway!”

  Naturally, by the time I manage to wrestle open my back door and get him outside, he’s already finished. He sits on the grass, staring up at me and wagging his tail.

  “See this?” I point at the ground. “This is grass. This is where you take care of doggie business. Not on my bed and definitely never near my head. Understand?”

  He continues to wag, still grinning up at me.

  I sigh.

  The sun’s barely risen and already my day is off to a stellar start.

  After cleaning up the trail of pee leading from my bed to the back door, I strip the sheets and feed my incontinent puppy the last remaining bit of kibble left behind in his doggie bag. There’s something wrong with a dog eating from a hundred dollar Anthropologie bowl set, but it was the first thing my hands landed on in the box of kitchen stuff, and I don’t have the energy to dig for the cheaper china.

  I sniff the kibble dubiously before I set it down — it smells like dirt and looks wholly unappetizing, but Fenway devours it so fast you’d think it were the finest French caviar.

  “What do they put in there, crack?”

  His tail wags in affirmation.

  After attempting to call Duncan — it goes straight to voicemail, what a shocker! — I slug down a few cups of coffee, take a quick shower, and change into a passably cute outfit: Stuart Weitzman sandals and a gauzy sage green sundress. It’s too hot outside to waste time styling my hair — the humidity frizz factor is no joke — so I sweep it back into a high ponytail with my favorite tortoiseshell clip, swipe on some mascara and lip-gloss, and grab Fenway’s leash from the hook by the door.

  “Come on, boy,” I call, snapping my fingers to get his attention. “Let’s go get you a bed.” I pause. “And maybe some disposable pee-pads.”

  We step out into the gloriously sunny morning. It’s Friday, and Beacon Hill is bustling with vacationing tourists out for breakfast at open-air cafes, commuters heading downtown to work, and more than a few early-bird Instagrammers capturing views of Acorn Street — which, according to Google, is the most photographed street in America. Shutterbugs and amateurs alike flock here all year round to snap pictures of its sloping cobblestones and symmetrical brick-faced row houses.

  I soon discover that Fenway is something of a celebrity. Everyone we meet wants to know how old he is (I have no idea, so I say ten weeks at random, which seems to satisfy those asking) his breed (an Irish Something?) and, of course, his name. (Finally, something I actually know!)

  He soaks up the attention with glee, wagging his tail and giving out kisses to small children like a tiny four-pawed politician. Between stopping to greet his adoring fans and pausing to pee twice (YAY! YOU WENT ON THE GRASS! WHO’S A GOOD BOY? WHO’S THE BEST BOY IN THE WHOLE WORLD?!) our “quick trip” to the pet shop takes three times longer than I was expecting.

  It’s nearly noon by the time we make it back to my apartment, armed with a plush doggie be
d, a bag of kibble, training treats, three different toys, and several informative pamphlets about the housebreaking process, which the girl working the counter shoved in my direction after I told her about Fenway’s rather wet wakeup call.

  I try not to think about the fact that my meager funds are now even more depleted as I hand over most of the babysitting money I earned last night.

  Who knew dogs were so effing expensive?

  Seventy dollars poorer, sweating through my sundress, and winded from the walk home, I’m juggling the heavy bag of loot along with Fenway’s leash while digging around in my purse for my keys when the hair on the back of my neck rises. I can’t explain exactly what triggers it, but I’m overcome by the sudden sensation that I’m being watched.

  Heart pounding, I whirl around and scan the street, half expecting to see two henchman lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce. Instead, I find my whole block is totally tranquil: the brick awash with summer sunshine, the window boxes bursting with colorful blooms. Fenway looks up at me curiously, probably wondering why I’m so tense.

  “If someone gets the jump on us, defend me, okay boy?” I murmur, turning back to my door. “By that, I clearly mean lick them to death. Or pee on them. Since those seem to be the only skills you’ve mastered thus far.”

  Once inside, I unearth one of his toys — a soft foam-filled toy shaped like a hippo, which he promptly picks up in his mouth and carries off to chew from the comfort of his new bed. My heart flips as I examine him cuddled up in a red ball of fluff. I’m filled with the unfamiliar urge to lie down beside him so I can watch his every yawn and yip and tail wag from mere inches away.

  Dear lord, what is happening to me?

  When did I become such a sap?

  If I’m this attached to a fur-baby after only twenty-four hours, I’m guessing the future probably doesn’t bode well for me should I ever decide to pop out an actual human baby.

  It’s just a puppy, I tell myself. What’s so cute about a puppy?

  Oh, right.

  Literally everything.

  Determined to regain some of my aloof cool-girl aesthetic, I turn my back on Fenway with considerable effort and walk into my bedroom. The day is slipping away rapidly. I have to be at the venue for Phoebe’s rehearsal dinner by three, and I haven’t even begun getting ready.

  As if she hears my thoughts, my phone begins to buzz in the bowels of my Mansur Gavriel bucket bag.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s a disaster. A disaster!” She’s talking a mile a minute. “Remember how two days ago I was zen and chill about this whole getting married to the man of my dreams thing? Yeah, that’s over. The zen has vanished. I officially have no chill.”

  “Phee, take a deep breath or you’re going to pass out.”

  “I don’t have time to breathe! The flowers are a mess. And by that, I mean the flowers are nonexistent. As in, they did not show up. I called the florist and no one answers, it just rings and rings and rings. And I don’t have time to go over there and fight with the little old lady who owns the place in person, because I have to do my hair and makeup.” She lets out a small scream of frustration. “Plus, my face is all splotchy and I think I have back fat in my rehearsal dress and there’s a twenty-three percent chance of rain for tomorrow which, okay, I know doesn’t actually seem like a lot, but that’s basically a one-in-four chance that it’s going to be awful during the moment I say I do to the man of my dreams, and totally ruin our reception afterward. The very elaborate, very expensive, very outdoor reception that I’ve spent basically my whole life planning, right down to the damn groom. And—”

  “PHEOBE!” I yell into the phone before she can list one more thing.

  There’s a brief lull in her panicked babble; I capitalized on it.

  “Listen to me — everything is going to be just fine. The ceremony itself is inside. So we’re really only talking about the dance floor, right? Last I checked, they have these rad new inventions called tents that, when erected, shield those standing beneath from the elements.”

  “But—”

  “And,” I cut her off. “A twenty-five percent chance of rain means—”

  “Twenty-three,” she corrects lowly.

  “Even better. A twenty-three percent chance of rain means there is a seventy-seven percent chance it’ll be gorgeous.”

  “But—”

  “And speaking of gorgeous, that’s exactly what you are in your rehearsal dress. I’d lie to you about many things, but I would never lie to you about back fat. That I promise you, on my honor as your bridesmaid.”

  “Thanks.” She sniffles. “That means a lot.”

  “Anytime. Now, for the flowers — call Nate. The man is a freaking private investigator, for god’s sake. I think he can track down an elderly florist with a crummy phone connection. He can handle it. Plus, it will give him something to keep busy with, before the rehearsal.”

  “That’s actually not a bad idea…”

  “I know. That’s why I thought of it.” I roll my eyes. “As for the rest, if you’ll just take a deep breath and stop freaking the hell out over very manageable problems your face will cease being a blotchy mess and return to that normal, perfect porcelain most girls would kill for.”

  I hear her take a deep breath on the other side of the line.

  “Phoebe.”

  “Yeah?” she asks.

  “Just tell me what’s really got you so freaked out.”

  She sighs. “You know me too well.”

  “I’m aware of that.” I pause. “Spit it out, I have a rehearsal to get ready for and I hear the girl is a real bridezilla.”

  She laughs. “I’m just nervous, I guess.”

  “About what?”

  “The whole thing. The marriage thing. What Nate and I have is so great… maybe it’s stupid, but I’m scared this will change things somehow. Isn’t there a saying — if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?”

  “I think that expression is more for household appliances,” I assure her. “Leaky faucets and the like.”

  “Really?” she sounds doubtful.

  “Sure,” I fib. “And, regardless, there’s simply no way a gold ring and a sappy vow will make Nate love you any less. That’s crazy talk. If anything, this is going to bring you guys closer.” I scrunch up my nose. “Which is disturbing, considering how obsessed you two already are with each other. Any closer, I worry I’ll have to pry you apart with a crowbar.”

  She snorts.

  “Phee, do you remember when we were little, and we made our Phee-Lilah best friend pact?”

  “Of course.” She scoffs. “That needle hurt like a bitch.”

  “Be that as it may… that day, we had a ceremony of our own. We promised to stay close from our days playing with dolls to the days we’re racing wheelchairs down the halls of our nursing home.” My eyes prick with unshed tears — I’m guessing the first of many, over the course of the next few days. “That vow worked out pretty well, I’d say.”

  “We’re only twenty-five. Still have plenty of years left to get sick of each other.”

  “Sorry. You’re stuck with me, Phee. And so is Nate.” I blink up at the ceiling so I don’t start crying. “You and he have known each other just as long as you and me. Maybe longer. So, there’s not a single doubt in my mind that you two will make this work. Because, long before he was anything else — crush, unrequited love, boyfriend, soul mate, fiancé, and as of tomorrow, husband — he was your best friend. And best friend love lasts a lifetime. I guarantee it.”

  She blows her nose and I can tell she’s crying, but the panicked edge is gone from her voice. “Now I’m even blotchier and have a swollen nose to boot, you cow. Thanks a lot.”

  I smile. “Anytime.”

  “See you in two hours?”

  “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  She pauses. “Not literally though, right, because bells would really throw off the whole bridal party ensemble—”

  “Phoebe. It’s
an expression.”

  “Right. I knew that.” She sighs. “In case I don’t have a chance to tell you this in all the craziness of the next two days… I love you, Lila. You’ve been an amazing bridesmaid. I hope one day I can return the favor.”

  I open my mouth with a snappy retort ready on my lips — HA! Fat chance of that, since I’m never getting married! — but something makes me bite my tongue. Swallowing hard, I close my eyes and when I speak, my voice is so soft I’m not even sure she can hear me across the line.

  “Yeah. I hope so too.”

  Chapter Eleven

  If I wanted to spend my weekend watching people suck at sports, I’d have kids already.

  Delilah Sinclair, sassing a Yankees fan during the seventh inning stretch.

  I knew, as soon as I heard about Phoebe’s engagement, that it wouldn’t be your standard church wedding. Nothing about Phoebe Evangeline West has ever been standard, from her fashion sense to the size of her heart — why should her wedding be any different?

  Which is why, at three o’clock in the afternoon, I find myself standing by the penguin exhibit inside the New England Aquarium, brushing red dog hair from the shimmery black, open-backed sheath dress I picked out for this occasion, wondering whether there’s some kind of insurance policy for guests who get a bit too intoxicated during receptions and fall into the tank with the Great White sharks.

  Until death do you part.

  Chomp!

  Before Shelby picked me up, I left Fenway under the affectionate care of Joyce, Ted, and the twins — they were so excited by the prospect of dog sitting, I think I may have a fight on my hands, getting custody back later tonight. (Then again, since he’s not yet housebroken, their affections may wane as the evening progresses.)

  “Is this thing starting anytime soon?” Shelby sips her glass of champagne. “Or do we have time to walk around and see the exhibits?”

  “Gemma and Phoebe are upstairs, talking to the venue coordinator. I don’t think the boys are here yet, but we should probably make our way up there.” I glance around the main exhibit room. There’s not a soul to be seen, excepting a few delivery men carrying beautiful floral arrangements out onto the harborside deck — clearly, the florist posed little challenge for Nate. “I’ve never seen this place so empty.”