Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(21)

“Shit, Delilah, what the fuck do I do?” he barks.

It takes him a minute to register the shaking of my shoulders is not, in fact, due to choking, but to laughter. His mouth flattens into a frown as realization dawns.

“Oh my god, your face!” I laugh so hard I nearly snort. “I got you so good, Buchanan, I thought you were going to pee your pants.”

“You’re joking,” he hisses, his grip tightening against my biceps. I watch the panic evaporate from his eyes, replaced by amused disbelief. “Christ. Damn near gave me a heart attack, woman.”

I shove playfully at his shoulders. “Serves you right for making fun of the way I eat pancakes!”

He scoffs. “I’ve seen dinosaurs take smaller bites on nature documentaries.”

I glare at him, offended. “You take that back.”

He shrugs and remains silent.

I poke him in the shoulder. “Take—” Another poke. “—it—” And a third. “—back!”

“Or what?”

“You’ll regret it!”

He laughs — laughs! — like my threat is the most adorable thing he’s ever heard. Like he thinks it’s somehow a good idea to argue with a redhead when she’s in a temper.

My eyes narrow and before I can talk myself out of it, I reach out, dip my finger in the syrup on my plate, and smear a thick line of it down the bridge of his nose.

“Ha!” I yell in his face, grinning.

I’m victorious.

I’m vindicated.

I’m a veritable badass, no one messes with me!

My self-congratulations screech to a sudden halt when I see the way Luca’s eyes are suddenly glittering. I realize I have made a massive miscalculation.

See… I forgot, for a second, that Luca isn’t like most men I spend time with. He won’t pull a pressed handkerchief from his pocket and wipe away the syrup with an indulgent shake of his head, like one of my corporate dreamboats would in this scenario.

Oh, Lila, how childish. Now, as I was saying, my latest merger…

Nope.

Not Luca.

He won’t indulge me.

He’ll strike back.

Reading the dangerous gleam of retaliation in his eyes, I quickly see the error of my ways. I begin to backpedal away from him, hands thrown out in front of me.

“Sorry, that was— I didn’t mean—”

My lips clamp together when I realize nothing I say will save me.

He stands totally still for a beat, as a single drop of syrup slowly dribbles down his nose, leaving a sticky trail in its wake. Frozen, we both watch as it falls to the floor in what seems like slow motion — a tiny amber-colored raindrop, splattering onto his hardwood. I suck in a breath of air as his eyes lift from the floor and lock on mine, feeling my heart start to pound as a dark, wolfish smile spreads across his face. In a move designed to strike fear into my heart, he slowly reaches out and takes hold of the plastic syrup jug.

It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve seen all day — and I was in jail two hours ago, so that’s saying a lot.

You just had to go and poke the bear, didn’t you, Lila?

I don’t have time to answer my own question, because a second later…

Luca pounces.



You can probably guess that things don’t exactly go my way. Honestly, it’s not remotely a fair fight — a jacked MMA fighter armed with adrenaline and a full bottle of syrup, up against a girl in garters who generally considers running through the mall sufficient weekly cardio?

Yeah.

He moves like lighting, chasing me around with the bottle held aloft. Screeching louder than a cat in heat, I turn and sprint for the other side of the apartment. There’s little point — I’m not even running in the direction of the front door, so I’ve got no chance at escape unless I plan to hurl myself from the balcony into the harbor five stories below.

I hear him close on my heels as I race toward the sectional. The wood floors are slippery beneath my stockings; I nearly face plant multiple times, but somehow manage to remain upright as I make a flying leap up onto the cushions. Don’t ask me why, but the only tactic I can seem to remember from all my years of binge-watching Game of Thrones and Vikings is that high ground always has the advantage in a battle.

And that’s exactly what this is.

A battle.

No — a war.

“Don’t even think about it, Buchanan!” I scream over one shoulder, laughing like a lunatic. I whirl around just in time to see him charge the couch, a blur of sinuous athletic grace. There’s a look of such dark thrill on his face, it makes my throat close up.

Oh, boy.

I realize, too late, that running from Luca will do me as little good as pleading with him. In fact, by doing so, I’ve given him what any alpha predator enjoys most in all the world.

A good chase.

He jumps up onto the couch along with me, landing on the cushion with such force my entire body is launched three inches into the air. Bouncing like a kid on a trampoline, I try to save myself by spinning around and dashing madly for the other end of the sectional.

Maybe I can make a run for the bathroom and barricade myself…

But it’s far, far too late for that.

I’m mid-leap when Luca’s arm snakes out and hooks me around the stomach. Before I know it, I find my course fully reversed, all forward momentum halted like a car hitting a brick wall. I’m hauled straight back into his chest, plastered so tight against him I can feel his every chiseled chest muscle firmly against my spine.