Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(27)
“Seriously, I’ve seen tectonic plates with smaller cracks,” I mutter.
I think I hear a choked sound of amusement, but when I glance at Luca, I find him staring down at me with a totally blank expression.
“What?”
He just shakes his head.
“Whatever.” I sigh. “I took the job. I needed the cash and I figured, how hard could it possibly be to clean a house?” My brows knit together. “Of course, I didn’t take into account the fact that, when I got there, the owner of said house would be an eighty-five-year-old Hugh Hefner wannabe with wandering eyes and a mandatory work uniform revealing enough to rate NC-17.”
“He asked you to wear that while cleaning his house?” Luca sounds skeptical. “And you actually complied?”
“What part of this story are you not comprehending?” I ask, slightly offended by his tone. “You saw my refrigerator the other night. There’s nothing in there except a bottle of sauvignon blanc — and, trust me, after the ordeal I’ve had, that won’t last the night. My car’s been impounded for failure to pay the monthly loan. My landlord, who used to bake me a freaking banana bread every month, sent me a very tersely-worded eviction notice. Oh, and my favorite department store cut up my credit card last time I went in to buy moisturizer. Moisturizer!” I throw up my hands. “French maid uniform be damned, I needed the cash if I want to buy groceries, pay rent, and hydrate my skin on a regular basis to avoid looking like Mrs. Potato Head by age thirty.”
Luca shakes his head in silent disbelief.
“It’s not like this was my first choice of employment, trust me. It’s not like I haven’t done other jobs. I tried becoming Instagram famous — turns out you need to post more than once every three months to build a following. I tried to get a job at a gym — apparently, they frown on it when you believe the best kind of workout happens between the sheets, not on a treadmill.”
His eyes cut to mine with a heated look in them.
Moving on!
“I got a job on one of those gourmet taco trucks — and I don’t even like tacos. Which, honestly, the universe must’ve known, because the thing crashed with me in it.”
“Probably ‘cause you were driving it with an expired license.”
I narrow my eyes. “I wasn’t the one driving. I was in the back with the food. Guacamole went everywhere. And avocado does not lift out of cotton, I don’t care what those OxyClean commercials claim.”
He snorts as he loads another dish.
“I spent a day as a sign-spinner outside one of those TurboTax places — it made me so dizzy, I passed out on the street and woke up sharing a stoop with a hobo.” I search my brain for more failed job opportunities. “Oh! I tried being a kitty sitter for a woman down my street and caught cat scratch fever — was in the ER for two days and actually lost money. I tried being a waitress, but I dropped every tray. Before the moisturizer incident, I even worked a few shifts at that same department store, recommending products and giving beauty advice. Of course, that didn’t end well after a woman came in asking about dark marks and I accused her of being a Death Eater.”
An amused chuckle comes from Luca.
“Don’t laugh! It’s true. And, in my defense, she really had a Bellatrix Lestrange vibe about her.”
“Even a Harry Potter villain outranks a Hugh Hefner impersonator.”
“Honestly, I thought Mr. McGuire was harmless.” I pause. “Pervy, perhaps, but ultimately harmless.”
“Until…” Luca prompts, loading the last dish and starting the wash cycle. He leans against the sink and pins me with a look.
Avoiding his eyes, I take a few steps away to create a little distance between us. I rest back against the kitchen island directly across from him, mirroring his pose. I don’t — can’t — look at him when I say the next part.
“Until I was in his bedroom, changing the sheets — for the record, I used chic hotel-corner folds and everything — and his hand found its way beneath my skirt.”
Luca curses lowly, with such vehemence my eyes widen and fly up to his face. There’s a very scary expression twisting his features, the kind that suggests he’d like to throw his much-lauded left hook into my former employer’s face.
Yikes.
Swallowing hard, I decide to leave out some of the more colorful details of Mr. McGuire’s groping. Hearing how the old man grabbed my arm, twisted until my eyes began to tear, and attempted to push me down face-first on the bedspread — stark naked as the day he was born, in all his saggy-assed glory, mind you — will only fan the flames of Luca’s temper.
“I didn’t stick around to see what else he planned to do,” I murmur. “I kicked him where it counts, swiped his car keys off the kitchen counter, and took off. I wasn’t stealing his car, I swear — I just had to get out of there and wasn’t really thinking straight. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize until I was halfway home that my cellphone was still sitting on his bedroom floor. I must’ve been more freaked out than I realized, because I was driving a wee bit above the speed limit—”
Luca snorts. “Eighty in a thirty.”
“—and I didn’t see the light turn red until I’d already barreled through the intersection. Cue police sirens, followed by a very judgmental interrogation with an officer who took one look at my outfit and decided I was an escort who’d helped herself to some of her client’s personal belongings without permission. It was clear he didn’t believe a word I said. He laughed when I tried to explain that the car was a loan.”