Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(20)

“Well, the officers who pulled me over certainly did.” I run my fingers through my tangled hair, wishing I had a brush handy. It’s probably for the best that I’ve managed to avoid mirrors, since my incarceration. “I’m almost positive they thought I was a call girl.”

Luca’s lips twitch again. “But a high class one, seeing as you were driving a stolen Bentley.”

“Borrowed! A borrowed Bentley,” I insist.

“Uh huh.” He shakes his head at me. “Borrowed…without permission. And, apparently, drove at nearly a hundred miles per hour through a red light. In front of a parked cop. Carrying an expired license.”

“How do you know that?” I ask, eyes wide.

“The cop who pulled you over filled me in, before we left the precinct.”

“Officer McBangMe? More like Officer McBlabberMouth,” I mutter.

Luca’s eyes narrow further. “What was that?”

Shit, I really didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Nothing,” I lie.

His arms cross over his chest. “You make a habit of grand theft auto, or was this a one-time stunt?”

“It’s wasn’t grand theft auto. Maybe grand borrowing auto. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because the owner of the Bentley won’t press charges.”

“And you know that how, exactly?”

“I just do,” I murmur noncommittally.

“Delilah.”

“Luca.”

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what happened.”

“Who says I need your help?”

He stares me down.

Okay, so there’s a chance I might need his help.

Whatever.

“Didn’t you promise me pancakes?” I hedge, desperate for a break.

“Fine. We’ll eat.” He pins me with a serious look. “But we’re not done with this shit.”

“Honestly, I think I’d rather relive the sex tip session with my cellmate Destiny than continue this conversation,” I mutter under my breath.

He hears me. Of course.

“Tell you what,” he tosses over his shoulder as he strides toward the kitchen. “You miss your cellmate so much, I’ll make you a deal — describe, in detail, exactly what happened last night, and I’ll drive you straight back to jail afterward. Sound good?”

I roll my eyes at his back.

Honestly, fighting with this man is a waste of breath. He hears exactly what he wants to hear and nothing more. He always gets what he wants, in the end, because he’s utterly relentless. Non-negotiable.

I should storm out of here in a huff, just to make a point. Just to show him he can’t boss me around, or intimidate me with his macho shenanigans.

I really should.

Except, he did make breakfast. So…

I suppose I can delay storming out. Temporarily.

I suppose I can stay and endure his interrogation for a bit longer. Because… pancakes.

Should I be concerned with the fact that breakfast takes clear priority over my sense of pride? Perhaps. But I’m too ravenous to care. It’s been upwards of twenty-four hours since I last ate; I’ve sailed past salad-for-dinner hungry and gone straight to day-three-of-a-juice-cleanse starving.

Following Luca across the room in only my stockings — sorry, Mom — I take a seat at the nearest barstool while he washes his hands and grabs two plates from an overhead cabinet. Sliding one in front of me, he settles his large frame on the stool directly across from mine and lifts the lid on the warming platter to reveal a giant stack of perfect, golden pancakes.

I feel my mouth fill with saliva as I stare at them. They’re still steaming, they smell orgasmic, and they look absolutely delicious — soft and buttery, exactly the kind of food my friend Shelby, health nut and personal-trainer, would have a heart attack if she ever saw me consuming. Honestly, you’d think gluten was a biochemical weapon, the way she describes it.

Luca loads up our plates and I barely wait a beat before dumping a dollop of syrup on top of my stack, hacking off a huge multi-layered wedge, and shoving it into my mouth with gusto. Not my most ladylike move of all time — my cheeks puff out and my jaw threatens to unhinge as I chew the massive bite.

Luca watches me struggling to swallow and snorts.

“Don’t worry, I know the Heimlich Maneuver if necessary.”

In the words of Stephanie Tanner: how rude!

As delicately as possible — which, let’s be honest, is not very — I swallow down the rest of the bite. Just to get him back for teasing me, I drop my fork with a clatter against the marble counter and make a big show of twisting my features into a mask of shock.

“Oh!” I gasp, eyes wide.

“What is it?” he asks, immediately on high alert.

“You didn’t…” I wheeze. “…put banana…” I lock my jaw. “…in these…” I clutch at my throat. “…did you?”

His brows pull together. “Yeah, why?”

Fake choking like my first Academy Award for Best Actress in a Mediocre Prank depends on it, I thrash a bit on my stool and hiss, “I’m… deathly…allergic…”

“Shit!” Luca leaps to his feet, races around the counter, and grabs me by the shoulders before I can blink. In less than a second I’m off my stool, wrapped in the span of his arms, and he’s staring down at my features in blind panic.