Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(18)

“Kitchen, living room, patio’s out there,” Luca says, gesturing around as he flicks on a recessed track of lights over the breakfast bar. It’s still pretty dark — the sun is flirting with the sky, but hasn’t quite committed to rising yet. “Pantry, laundry, storage closets, the basics. Bathroom’s through there.” He points at the door to the left of the kitchen. “And that’s my bedroom.” He jerks his head toward the set of slightly ajar French doors to the right.

I wonder what his bed looks like. Judging from the rest of this place, it wouldn’t surprise me to discover he sleeps on a wooden pallet like a monk. If I had more energy, I’d cross the room to find out, but my feet have ceased cooperating with my brain. Heady waves of fatigue are crashing through me, growing stronger with each passing moment. I’m actually swaying on my feet; I may collapse if he doesn’t offer me a seat soon.

He glances at me and seems to read the utter weariness in my features, because a small crease of concern appears between his eyes.

“Sit down before you fall down,” he orders gently, jerking his head in the direction of the couch. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

I decide it’s probably best not to argue with him. Faking composure I don’t feel, I walk across the room with long-legged strides. My heels click like gunshots against the hardwood with each step.

God, my arches ache.

I swear, I’m not usually a sissy about heels. In fact, I’m kind of a stickler when it comes to my footwear, giving even Phoebe — and her extensive collection of Louboutins — a run for her money. (Not literally though, because running in heels is super difficult. That Jurassic World actress is my hero.)

I wear pumps almost every day of the week, even when I’m going somewhere mundane like the grocery store or the coffee shop around the corner. I’m not the kind of girl who goes to a wedding and takes her stilettos off to dance more comfortably, either. Heck, I don’t even own a pair of wedges because, if I’m going to go to all the trouble of wearing heels, you can bet your ass they won’t be made of cork, thank you very much.

My mother raised me to believe that taking one’s shoes off in public is tantamount to going commando at church on Sunday. More than impolite — such an insult to proper society, you’d be hard pressed to convince her that bare feet aren’t just as bad as a bare ass.

Delilah, if you’re going to wear heels, be prepared to wear them until you get home, she used to say, while I watched her pack her suitcase for yet another business trip. If you can’t commit to seeing something through to completion, why bother starting it at all?

Silly or not, her long-recited rules stuck in my head. I fear that saying about old dogs and new tricks is accurate, because it’s far too late to change my ways at this point. My toes could be bleeding, you still won’t catch me barefoot at a stranger’s house.

Even now, as I sit down on Luca’s heavenly soft sectional, feet screaming for release after two straight days of imprisonment, I can’t bring myself to kick them off. I sit on the edge of the cushion, back ramrod straight, staring out at the streaks of pink slowly appearing on the horizon. Maybe it’s stubborn, but keeping them on feels like my last act of defiance, the last shred of dignity I can still cling to without losing myself completely.

I hear Luca moving around in the kitchen behind me — cabinets opening and closing, the gas range clicking on, a spoon scraping the side of a mixing bowl. Every once in a while, I feel the weight of his eyes on me, but I keep my focus directed at the sunrise as the minutes tick by.

I’m thinking of asking to borrow two toothpicks to prevent my eyelids from drooping closed when my line-of-sight is cut off by the appearance of a white t-shirt. My gaze tracks slowly over a truly impressive set of abs, past a broad plane of pectoral muscle, along the tanned column of a throat, and finally up to meet the eyes of the man looming over me.

“What?” I whisper, craning my neck. I’m too tired to stand.

He doesn’t say a thing as he crouches down to my level. I open my mouth to ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing, but I’m stunned silent as he reaches toward me. I flinch back, startled, but his hands never hesitate as he pulls off my heels. First the right, then the left, leaving me in just my stocking feet.

“What— why—”

I swallow my questions as he sets the heels aside without a word. They click dully against the floor as he puts them down.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, voice breathy.

With exhaustion, I tell myself. Not anticipation.

There’s nothing to anticipate.

Because nothing is going to happen between us.

Obviously.

Gulp.

Luca’s eyes hold mine for a suspended moment. I can’t help but suck in a sharp, surprised breath when I feel him take my right foot into his hands. With expert technique, his thumbs begin to stroke my sore insteps, working the cramped arches like a professional masseuse. It feels so good, I have to physically bite down on my tongue to keep from moaning out loud.

Luca Buchanan is giving me a foot rub.

And I’m letting him.

The thoughts are too strange to fathom, so I shove them away and focus on the feeling of his hands. His touch is at once purely platonic and shockingly intimate. It’s strange — I know I should be objecting, I know I should be putting up a fuss about the fact that he’s crossing this line… but I can’t vocalize a single protest.