Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(12)
I’m relatively certain that Luca doesn’t even own a suit. He may not even own jeans, for god’s sake. His fighter aesthetic leans more toward low-riding gray sweatpants that leave very little to the imagination and white t-shirts that show off his broad chest and corded bicep muscles.
Like I said — not my type.
At all.
So… I can’t really explain why my mouth goes dry at just the sight of him standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, his ever-intent eyes sweeping me from top to toe with the same intensity I use to examine the new line of Prada purses each fall. I can’t understand why my stomach suddenly feels like it’s made of stone, or my tongue seems to swell to twice its normal size, or my lungs seem to seize up inside my chest, until just pulling breath in and out is a chore.
“Delilah.”
It’s more a growl than a greeting.
His eyes do another sweep of the French maid outfit. When they return to mine, for the first time ever, they’re not icy at all. In fact, they’re full of so much heat I’m surprised I don’t catch on fire.
Crap on croquettes.
I shift my weight from heel to heel, trying like hell to keep my expression blank when he takes a step in my direction. After his protective tone on the phone, I half expect him to say something gentlemanly, or caring, or concerned about the fact that he’s currently springing me from jail at four in the morning. I realize my expectations were more than a little off as his lips tug up in an amused half smile.
“Babe.” He shakes his head at me. “You failed to mention the outfit.”
The nerve!
Refusing to dignify that comment with a response, I toss my hair over one shoulder in an irked gesture and turn my back to him with a huff. As I spin, the lace petticoats beneath my skirt flounce like butterfly wings, accidentally exposing a fairly large stretch of bare thigh.
Oops.
My feet falter at what sounds suspiciously like a tortured groan coming from behind me. Wide-eyed with disbelief, I glance back to see if the sound could’ve possibly come from Luca, but his face is schooled in an unaffected mask. Officer McMakeMeScream looks similarly impassive.
Great, now I’m hearing things.
Clearly, my extensive time behind bars has affected my brain chemistry. That explains why my traitorous cheeks are flushing with heat again. (In my defense, it’s tough to maintain your decorum when your asscheeks are practically exposed.)
Officer McDoMe fixes his gaze on Luca with an alertness that sets my teeth on edge.
“Wait… you’re Blaze Buchanan!” The officer’s eyes have lost their hostile edge. In fact, he looks downright cheerful now that he’s not focused on me. “Wow! I can’t believe I’m meeting you in person!”
I tense as Luca steps up beside me, uncomfortably close. I can smell the crisp, clean scent of his aftershave in the air between us; can practically feel the heat coming off his body. I have to lock my knees to prevent myself from leaning away as he extends one hand to shake the officer’s.
“Good to meet you, too.” Luca’s eyes cut to me again. “Sorry about the circumstances.”
Officer McFanboy grins. “I saw you fight three months ago in Lowell. Fastest TKO I’ve ever seen — I blinked and almost missed it. Man, I’d love to buy you a beer sometime, it would be an honor—”
“Don’t I have to sign something?” I cut off the stream of fawning before they can launch into a full discussion of stats and techniques. We’ll be here all night, otherwise.
The officer barely looks away from Luca as he jerks his head in affirmation and points me toward the front desk, where his partner is stationed behind a sliding glass window. I head for it, eager to get out of Luca’s space — and out of this godforsaken place. It’s been pretty much the worst night of my life, and I’d like it to end as soon as humanly possible.
My back is barely turned when the conversation starts up again.
“Is it true you’re fighting Jack Forrester again this month? He’s a beast…”
My eyes are still rolling as I reach the desk. An unsmiling officer slides a clipboard of release documents through the window slot, followed by a small plastic baggie containing my meager collection of personal effects. I scan the papers, trying my best to tune out Officer McSuddenlyLessSexy asking Luca details about his next fight.
By the time I’ve signed the bail agreement and collected the things they confiscated when I was arrested — my house keys, a truly spectacular Ferragamo clutch purse, my favorite stack of silver rings, the white-gold Tiffany watch my parents gave me for my twenty-first birthday — Luca’s given two autographs and posed for a selfie with practically everyone who works at the precinct, from the lieutenant to the night janitor to the Hells Angel in handcuffs slumped in a metal folding chair by the door.
I’m not entirely surprised. In the past five months, his star has risen astronomically fast. He’s gone from sparring unofficially in dingy Southie gyms to dominating at every major regional MMA contest… and the hype has only built, as more scouts and promoters have flocked to each of his matches. His following grows each time he steps into the ring. Word on the street is, it’s almost guaranteed that if he wins his next championship in two weeks, he’ll get what every aspiring fighter strives for.
A UFC contract.
Goodbye cash-only underground fight rings; hello multimillion dollar pay-per-view matches.