Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)
Julie Johnson
Prologue
I may not be that smart or talented or coordinated, but… Actually, I forget where I was going with this.
Delilah Sinclair, attempting to cheer herself up.
I’d like to point out that none of this is my fault.
I know, I know, people always say that. But, seriously, folks — I mean it when I tell you none of this is my fault. None of it. Not the police sirens or the stolen car or even the unfortunate state of my hair.
You probably have a hard time believing that, examining this situation from an outside perspective. I can practically hear you judging me from here.
Sure, Lila, it’s definitely not your fault that you landed yourself in this debacle. At this time of night. Wearing that outfit. With exactly three dollars and seventeen cents to your name. Missing a multitude of things, not limited to your iPhone and any remaining semblance of dignity.
Trust me, I know how it sounds. Frankly, I wouldn’t believe me either. Especially given my track record. Just ask my friends, family members, and former teachers — over the years, I’ve come up with a variety of colorful excuses to weasel my way out of taking responsibility.
For school assignments: You’ll never believe it, Mrs. Tippen! My essay on photosynthesis was torn to shreds by my grandmother’s schnauzer Peaches just as I was leaving this morning…
For a traffic ticket: Oh, officer, I didn’t even see that stop sign! I’m just in such a rush to get church, I’m volunteering today…
For my friends: Wow, there was soooooooo much traffic. Who knew it would be so congested during rush hour?
For my parents: You called? Twice? Oh, yikes, my phone has really been acting up, I should take it to the Apple store this week…
I’m not proud of my little white lies but, let’s be honest, I’m not the only one who does it. Heck, there’s a scientific study that claims sixty percent of Americans can’t go ten whole minutes without telling a whopper. (Sampling from my ex-boyfriends alone, I’d peg that statistic closer to eighty-five percent, but I digress.)
What it comes down to is this: we’re all big, fat liars.
We lie about our dress sizes, our fears, our favorite movies, and our accomplishments. We lie about things that matter greatly and things of absolutely no consequence. Big things, small things, and all the in-between things. I’m not exempt from that.
But not this time.
This time, I’m not making excuses or attempting to pass the blame off on another unsuspecting soul. (Or schnauzer.) My credibility may be shot to all hell, but I swear on my favorite shade of MAC lipstick — may they discontinue it if I prove to be lying.
This is not my fault.
I just wish the police officer slapping handcuffs on my wrists saw it the same way.
Chapter One
I don’t answer blocked numbers.
Or unknown numbers.
Or really any numbers, ever.
In fact, you should probably just text me.
Delilah Sinclair, waiting for her phone to stop ringing so she can use it again.
“You get one phone call. Make it quick.”
The burly policeman walks away, his broad shoulders filling out his uniform in a way that would normally make me do a double take. Except, right now, seeing as I’m currently standing smack dab in the middle of a jailhouse in a notoriously sleazy Boston suburb, surrounded by drug dealers and drunk drivers and more than a few ladies of the night in seriously killer plastic stiletto heels, I really have no business checking anyone out. Especially a police officer.
See, handsome single cops don’t really go for the criminal element when it comes to the women in their lives.
Not that I’m a criminal.
At least, I wasn’t… until about six hours ago.
Sigh.
I’d tell you all about it but, honestly, it’s kind of a long story. And I don’t think Officer McCuffMeAnytimeYouPlease was messing around when he said make it quick and stalked away to file a report without even bothering to give me a good frisking.
My brown eyes dart a glance down the dingy fluorescent-lit hallway and, to my great amusement, I find he’s watching me with disapproval behind the smeared plexiglass pane separating me from freedom. Judging by his expression, I have a feeling even my infamous puppy-dog look won’t get me out of this one — his brows are pulled together and there’s a muscle jumping in his cheek as his frosty stare sweeps from my strawberry blonde waist-length waves to the perfect shimmery pink polish coating each one of my fingernails. I can’t help but notice he seems personally offended by my outfit.
Normally, a man giving me crap for my fashion choices would inspire several choice expletives; however, seeing as I’m currently dressed in a ridiculously skimpy French maid uniform that just barely covers my curves, complete with garters, enough cleavage to shock a priest, and a pair of patent black leather pumps that lend an extra four inches to my height… I suppose I can’t really blame him for judging me. A little.
Who the hell gets arrested looking like Plumette?
The officer’s lingering eyes take special note of the frilly white apron cinched tight around my waist, but it’s the thigh-high stockings that really seem to do him in. When he spots the sheer black lace, his eyes go from tepid pools of displeasure to pure, polar ice-caps that would freeze a lesser woman where she stood.