Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(26)

“Delilah.”

“What?”

He’s silent, waiting for me to look up at him. With a sigh, I lift my eyes and find him watching me, weighing his words with extra care.

“You’re going to figure this out. I promise. Might not seem like it right now, but there’s more than one way to live a life, more than one route to happiness. Can be tough to see that, when you’ve spent twenty-five years headed one direction and suddenly hit a detour. But don’t forget, you’re the one in the driver’s seat. You get to control where you end up.”

“I think, based on recent events, we shouldn’t have too much faith in my driving skills.”

“Probably a good call.” He smirks. “By the way — update your damn license, will you? You shouldn’t be driving around with an expired one. Especially when you’re pretending to be a cast member from a bad Nicolas Cage movie.”

My brows lift. “National Treasure?”

He shakes his head.

“Ghost Rider?”

Another shake.

“Season of the Witch?”

“No.”

“The Wicker Man?”

Head still shaking, he cracks a smile.

“Man, that guy has made a lot of terrible movies.”

“True.” Luca laughs — a low, delicious rumble that makes me squirm on my barstool. “But in this instance, I was referring to Gone in 60 Seconds, considering your recent criminal activities.”

I roll my eyes.

“You know, if you update your license, that’s one less misdemeanor for them to charge you with.”

The man cannot resist the chance to boss me around.

“Yes, Dad.”

“Not trying to father you. Trying to help you.”

“Afraid there’s no helping me.” I heave an exaggerated, melodramatic sigh. “It’s a lost cause, at this point.”

“Your life isn’t over just because it’s not working out the way you planned. Hell, nothing in my life has gone as planned. I didn’t even have a plan. Didn’t go to college. Opted out of high school at sixteen and got my GED. All the same, I’ve managed pretty well for myself. May not have a bunch of letters after my name, but no one cares too much about your professional certifications when you’re uppercutting them to the jaw in a championship bout.” His shrug is light, but his eyes are serious.

As I stare across the counter at him, I realize how little I know about Luca Buchanan. Who exactly is this man, behind the badass exterior and hulking build? Where did he grow up? Is he from a big family, the kind that’s always bickering and laughing and fighting over dinner rolls at the table, or one like mine, full of gaping holes and painful memories that make it hard to look each other in the eye?

I’ve never let myself wonder before.

But sitting here, staring at him, I want to know so many things it terrifies me. His favorite colors and restaurants and holiday traditions. His pet peeves and passions and what he plans to do with his life, after his fighting days are over.

Danger! Fall back! Fall back!

“So, you’re saying I should shift gears and do something out of character?” I force a joking tone, trying to redirect the suddenly serious turn our conversation has taken down a lighter bend. “Maybe run off and join the circus? Become an elephant trainer or an acrobat or a bearded lady? I admit, elephants are cute, but I’m not extraordinarily flexible and no matter how hard I try, I doubt my goatee will be growing in anytime soon.”

“No.” He disregards my attempt to change the subject, still watching me with a seriousness that sets me on edge. “I’m saying that fancy degrees only get you so far. At the end of the day, they don’t make you any more qualified for life than street smarts. Just a matter of perspective, preparedness, and finding the right path for yourself.” He pauses. “And you will find yours, Delilah.”

“You sound so certain.”

“One rule I live by, when it comes to attaining anything: visualize the outcome you desire,” he murmurs. “Applies to my fighting strategies just as easily as it does your financial woes. Don’t focus on every small step in the race; picture yourself at the finish line. You’ll cross it eventually. Not a doubt in my mind about that.”

The butterflies in my stomach begin to swarm.

Shit.

For a man of few words, he certainly can pull out some good ones when he needs to. I myself am struggling to string together my thoughts, so I pour everything I’m feeling into a look and direct it his way.

Thank you, I don’t whisper, holding his eyes.

Anytime, babe, he doesn’t respond, lips tugging up in a half-smile.

Sliding off his stool, he grabs our plates and walks to the sink. “Still don’t get where the outfit comes in.”

I hop down and follow him, syrup-covered platter in hand. He starts rinsing as I pull open the dishwasher.

“There was a Craigslist ad seeking a housekeeper, three days a week in a rich suburb west of the city. Decent pay, plus I could take the bus there which was really great, since last week my car got seized by two very unfriendly repo-men with the worst cases of plumber’s butt I’ve ever seen in my life.”

I wince, remembering the horror as they leaned over to attach my adorable Mini Cooper convertible to their tow truck.