Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(15)

My cheeks heat. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“And the fact that you’ve known me upwards of six months now, but refuse to save my number in your phone?”

“My storage is full.”

“But you’ve somehow got room for the number of every pizza delivery place in the city.”

“Did you go through my phone the other night, when you dropped me off?” I hiss. “How did you know my password?”

“You handed it to me and told me to order you an Uber and a pizza, not necessarily in that order.” He shrugs unapologetically. “Opportunity knocked. I answered.”

“I don’t remember any of this.”

“Do you remember the bottle of tequila that preceded it?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “So, you figured you’d just have a little peek through my cellphone. Without permission.”

“Call me curious.”

“There are a few other choice things I’d like to call you, actually!” I’m so steaming mad, I’d stomp my foot if I weren’t wearing this outfit. “That’s a total invasion of privacy! You had no right to do that!”

“We can talk about that later. Right now, we’re talking about the fact that you’ve been avoiding me for half a year, despite the fact that I’ve never done shit to warrant it.”

“Well, I want to talk about it now! You can’t just go into a girl’s purse, let alone her phone. That’s a sacred space. Like church. Or the lobby of Tiffany & Co.”

“Don’t know what the fuck that means. Don’t want to know, either.” Luca leans even closer. “Care to share why you act like I’ve got some kind of contagious disease every time you see me?”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Oh, really?” His eyes darken. “Don’t think I am, babe. Nate tells me you always check with Phoebe to see if I’ll be somewhere, specifically so you can avoid bumping into me.”

I startle, thrown off balance by that revelation.

He’s been asking around about me?

“Well?” he demands, impatient as ever.

“Hearsay,” I insist, my voice somewhat less convincing.

“Uh huh.” Luca shakes his head like he knows I’m totally full of shit. His eyes are divided as they scan my face — half-frustrated, half-intrigued. “Must’ve damn near killed you to call me tonight.”

“I have a strong constitution,” I murmur weakly.

For a moment, staring down at me, his eyes churn with thoughts I can’t figure out. He seems to make up his mind about something, though, because all the frustration melts out of his expression, leaving behind a determined look I recognize — it’s the same one he wears just before he steps into the octagon for one of his matches. Equal parts take-no-prisoners and winner-takes-all.

I don’t know what it means in regard to me, but I’m guessing the answer is nothing good. My heart starts pounding double-time.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap.

He smiles again — god damn, I wish he’d stop doing that so close to me — and leans in, taking clear notice of the way my whole body goes tense in response. I think, for a crazy instant, that he might kiss me.

Which would be bad.

Terrible.

Awful.

Right?

Instead, with a gentleness that makes my pulse stutter, his hand finds mine in the darkness. Slowly, one digit at a time, he uncurls my fingers from the plastic baggie still clutched in my white-knuckled grip. I hadn’t even realized I was still holding it.

“Let me worry about this,” Luca murmurs, tucking the parcel under his arm and walking over to the bike, as if he hasn’t just given me premature heart palpitations. “You just worry about holding on.” He throws one leg over the Ducati, then glances back at me, eyes shining in the dark. “Tight.”

It’s official.

I am so screwed.



Luca wasn’t lying — we drive back to the city so fast, I’m certain we’re nothing but a blur of color to the few people actually out on the streets at this hour. Which, I must say, is a good thing, since my skirt spends the majority of the ride hiked up around my waist, leaving my entire bottom half exposed.

At this speed, there’s no choice but to follow Luca’s directions and hold him tighter than a girl with a glass of chilled chardonnay at happy hour after a mind-numbing work week. It’s more than a little disconcerting to be pressed up against him — my boobs squished against the broad planes of his back, my arms wrapped tight around his waist, my fingers locked together against each steely indentation of his abdominal muscles. It’s enough to make a girl dizzy. (Don’t you dare judge me: the man has an eight-pack, for god’s sake, and I’m only human.)

I’m so focused on not falling off — and not wriggling inappropriately against Luca’s back — that it takes me a while to realize we’ve flown past the exit that’ll take us to Beacon Hill and are instead winding our way slowly through a labyrinth of North End streets, tangled like the plates of pasta their restaurants are so famous for.

“Hey!” I yell into Luca’s ear. “This isn’t my neighborhood.”

In a shocking turn of events, he ignores me.