Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(13)
No wonder they want his autograph.
I hover awkwardly by the door as they finish their bro-bonding. Fighting the urge to yank my skirt lower over my ass, I wish for the thousandth time tonight that I’d been able to call literally anyone on planet earth other than the towering redheaded giant occupying entirely too much space in the waiting room.
Over the heads of two cops, his eyes find mine again. I become painfully aware of the fact that my hands are curled into fists around the small plastic bag. My grip only tightens further as Luca fist-bumps his cluster of fans goodbye, then crosses toward me with measured steps. Not in any kind of hurry. Never breaking eye contact.
Gulp.
It takes more effort than I’d like to admit to hold my ground when he comes to a stop a fraction too close for my liking, looming over me despite the four inch heels on my feet. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t; he just stares at me with that same look he’s been giving me for months. The one that seems to say, What the hell is your deal, Sinclair? I can’t figure you out.
I swallow hard and jerk my chin higher, determined not to shy away. His nearness has no effect on me. I’m totally not uncomfortable with him invading my personal space. At all.
Ha!
I am so full of shit.
If he notices my death-grip on the bag, or the slightly manic light in my eyes, or the fact that my hair hasn’t seen a brush in approximately twelve hours, he doesn’t comment. All he does is lean in closer — so close I can see the darker rim of blue around the outside of his irises, feel the weight of his breath stirring the wispy bangs near my hairline. I fight the urge to fidget as we engage in a silent conversation of sorts, each daring the other to speak first, each throwing out questions the other doesn’t want to answer. It’s strange, but without a single word, we understand each other plain as day.
He doesn’t ask, You gonna thank me for dragging my ass out of bed at this hour to bail you out?
I don’t snap back, You didn’t have to come.
And he doesn’t remind me, You had no one else, remember?
So I don’t say, Well, if I’d known you were going to be such a dick about it…
He leans back abruptly, putting an end to our ocular sparring, a low chuckle vibrating in his throat. I flinch at the sound as I realize I’ve leaned forward into his space, so caught up in our soundless argument, I lost myself for a moment.
Retreat! Retreat!
Shuffling an awkward step backward, my hands curl even tighter around my plastic baggie. I feel my damn cheeks flushing red again. I’m afraid to meet his eyes, so I stare at his mouth instead.
It barely helps.
(He has a great mouth.)
“You about ready to get out of here?” Luca asks finally, breaking the silence in that same soft tone he used earlier on the phone.
I just nod, because I don’t entirely trust myself to speak with him this close to me. His lips twitch, as if he knows exactly why I’m so silent.
“Good. Let’s go.”
Before I can protest, his large hand lands on the small of my back and he leads me outside into the dark summer night. The door clicks closed behind us, cutting off the low buzz of excitement still enveloping the waiting room — I’ve found Luca leaves a trail of stardust behind him wherever he goes, like a jet engine against a pale blue sky.
Quite abruptly we’re alone in the darkness, enveloped in absolute silence. It’s a stark contrast to the florescent-lit precinct. The atmosphere seems heavy, not just with late June humidity, but with all those unspoken words still stagnating in the air between us.
At this time of night, there’s not a single bird chirping in the trees, not one car on the streets. We walk across the parking lot, his hand still resting on the small of my back. I know I should snap at him to move it — what do you think this is, Buchanan, a date? — but I can’t bring myself to actually do it. I may be a bitch, but he did just save my ass.
We walk past the police cruisers parked directly in front of the building, then make our way down a row of indistinguishable dark colored SUVs and sedans. When he stops in front of a large navy blue truck, I break away from his light hold and beeline for the passenger side. I’m reaching for the handle when his voice halts me in my tracks.
“Delilah.”
I glance back at him, brows raised.
“You planning to steal another car tonight?”
My features twist into an unamused scowl. “No.”
“Then I suggest you step away from the stranger’s truck.” His lips twitch as he jerks his head to the adjacent parking spot. “This is me.”
I feel my face blanch. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I never joke about the bike, babe.”
If I weren’t stunned silent by the idea of climbing onto the back of a sleek, black, low-slung motorcycle in thigh-high stockings, platform heels, and a skirt so short you need a magnifying glass to locate it, I’d object to his babe comment. As it is, I’m a bit too preoccupied with visions of myself flashing my good bits to half of Boston while straddling his Ducati to think up a suitable retort.
Walking over to the bike, Luca retrieves a large, round black helmet and returns to stand before me. When he catches sight of my wary expression, his brows lift.
“Problem?”
“Are you kidding?” I gesture down at my outfit. “Do you see what I’m wearing?”