Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(17)
His eyes narrow. “You wanna explain what the fuck is going on with you, why your apartment suddenly looks like a storage facility?”
I jerk my chin, jaw locked.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he mutters. “You can act all prissy and you can yell till you’re blue in the face. I’m not taking you home to that empty apartment until you’re fed and warm and feeling like yourself again. That means pancakes and a hot shower.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can just.”
“This is none of your business!” I practically screech.
“You called me. You invited me into this. You made it my business, babe, second I dragged my ass out of bed at three in the morning to bail you out. So you’re gonna let me make the rules for a little while, until this is sorted.” His voice gets growly. “That includes getting into the shit you said concerning your touchy-feely boss, who we are gonna have a talk about later, I promise you that.”
My mouth gapes. “This is my life! These are my problems! You can’t just storm in and take over like some bossy, macho, knight-in-shining-armor with a god complex—”
His eyes glitter. “Thing you should know about me, Delilah?”
“I told you not to call me that,” I grumble. “No one calls me that.”
Not anymore.
He carries on as if he hasn’t heard me. “I see a problem, I fix it. Give me a few minutes, I promise I can fix the majority of yours. The rest…” He shrugs. “Those might take a little longer, but we’ll get them sorted too. You just have to give me time.”
“But—this—I—”
Stepping to my side, he reaches out, unhooks the helmet from beneath my chin, and pulls it off. His hand deftly brushes a few messy strands of hair away from my face, then drops to the small of my back. I’m so startled by his touch, I lose my train of thought… and before I can locate it again, a wave of exhaustion crashes through me.
Suddenly, I’m too tired to fight, too tired to think of all the reasons this is a bad idea as he leads me away from his bike, toward the entrance of his pretty brick-faced building with gardens I can see, even in the pre-dawn light, are bursting with summer blooms.
The scent of lilacs and peonies invades my head as we float past. I try to focus on their beauty, instead of the fact that I’m about to be alone with Luca Buchanan inside his apartment, wearing something so skimpy the Kardashians would object, struggling to remember all the reasons it would be terrible to throw myself at him like a heat-seeking missile.
You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Delilah.
Chapter Four
I should probably eat healthier, but Adam and Eve once ate a single apple and doomed all of humanity, so…
Delilah Sinclair, contemplating a second doughnut.
I don’t know where I expected a man like Luca to spend his nights, but it was not a place like this. Somehow, I pictured him living somewhere mega macho, all concrete and steel, with punching bags hanging from the ceiling and a sparring mannequin propped in the middle of the living room and maybe one of those deliciously entertaining salmon ladders that Stephen Amell is always making me drool over during episodes of Arrow.
(Okay, so that last one was more a fantasy than an actual guess, but I never claimed to be a saint.)
A girl can dream, right?
Half of me just assumed Luca slept at the gym, he’s there so often. Not that I’ve devoted an abnormal amount of time contemplating his sleeping arrangements, or anything. Because that would be weird and obsessive and vaguely stalker-like.
What was I saying?
Oh, right. Luca’s place isn’t what I was expecting at all. When it comes to architecture, I’m not easily wowed — probably a product of my unflinchingly upper-class upbringing on Nantucket. But one look around his space…
Wow.
Either working for Knox Investigations pays better than I thought, or he’s been raking it in from his recent winning streak.
Occupying a large top-floor end unit in the North End’s historic Battery Wharf, he’s got wall-to-wall windows that look out over the harbor, clear across to East Boston. Epic views of the ever-paling sky assault my eyes from every room as soon as we step over the threshold. I squint as I take it all in — open plan, loads of exposed brick, soaring beamed ceilings. It’s both quintessentially New England and a certified bachelor pad.
The kitchen and breakfast nook have been totally renovated in clean white marble; the main living space is sparsely furnished with a row of sturdy bookshelves and simple, efficient wood pieces in muted tones. I note the minimal artwork on the walls; the lack of a single non-essential piece of decor.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Luca Buchanan doesn’t do superfluous — not in his relationships or his communication style or, evidently, his living quarters.
The bamboo floors are unadorned by rugs or carpeting, stained so dark they’re nearly ebony. There’s a large gray sectional on the left, set in front of a massive wall-mounted television and entertainment system. Doors lead off the main room in either direction.
It’s beautiful, but feels very un-lived-in. Like a condo you put on the market, professionally staged by an interior designer in the hopes it’ll sell quicker.