Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(28)

“Can you blame him? People don’t make a habit of lending out cars that cost more than most houses. Sounds a bit out there, babe, you gotta admit.”

“I’ll admit no such thing! He was a jerk. And stop calling me babe.” My teeth clench. “After they pulled me over… well you know the rest. Squad car. County jail. Holding cell. Phone call. Then…”

“Me,” he murmurs. “Guess it’s a good thing I left my number on your palm.”

I flip my hand over and glance down at the faint smudge of ink still staining my skin. “Not that I’m complaining, based on how things played out, but what exactly prompted you to put your contact information in indelible ink on my body in the first place?”

He stills. “You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember anything past getting back to Phoebe’s in the party bus that night… It’s all a blur.” My eyes narrow on his face suddenly. “Why? I didn’t do anything embarrassing, did I?”

He shakes his head, but his eyes are guarded. I can’t read him at all.

Shit.

My heart is thumping. “I mean… I was passed out the entire time. So I couldn’t possibly have done or said anything embarrassing. Right, Luca?”

“If you say so,” he murmurs slowly.

Shit! That’s not a denial.

“What the hell happened?” I hiss.

“Exactly what you think — brought you home, carried you inside, tucked you in bed, left once I was sure you weren’t gonna get sick in your sleep and asphyxiate.”

His voice is matter-of-fact, but I can’t shake the feeling he’s not telling me everything. Unfortunately, since I have no actual memories to back up my suspicions, there’s little I can do about it.

I blow out an exasperated breath. “It’s been a really stellar two days.”

“Something for your memoirs.”

“Oh, yeah — my big, bad, law-breaking night of debauchery, all due to an octogenarian determined to turn his house into a knockoff Playboy Mansion, with or without my willing participation.” I roll my eyes. “Can you believe, when the police got in touch with him last night, he acted like he’d encouraged a valued employee to borrow the car so she could get home safely.” I snort. “I guess he knows a sexual assault charge would be far more inconvenient than the expense of towing his Bentley back home.”

Luca’s expression darkens with anger again.

“Turn that frown upside down, Buchanan. It could’ve been worse, all things considered.”

“Someone made advances on you without your consent,” he growls. “In my book, doesn’t get much worse than that.”

“That part wasn’t ideal, I’ll admit. But at least none of the charges the police threw at me will stick, except maybe reckless driving. I’ll probably end up paying a fine, if anything. Though, personally, I think my night in a jail cell with a hooker was punishment enough.”

“The arresting officer isn’t a bad guy. I’ll give him a call later, try to smooth things over.”

“No,” I say immediately. “You’ve done enough for me. I already have to pay you back for the bail money, plus picking me up and feeding me… I can’t ask you to do any more.”

“Guess it’s lucky you didn’t ask, then. I offered.”

“But—”

“Delilah. Let me do this.”

My mouth opens to protest again, but I force down the objection when I catch sight of his expression. He looks as though his mind is thoroughly made up. I lean back against the edge of the counter and clear my throat. When I finally speak, my voice is barely a murmur.

“Why?”

His brows tug inward. “Why what?”

“Why are you so determined to help me?”

“Why are you so determined to handle everything alone?”

I jerk my chin higher, not deigning to answer.

Luca’s eyes flash. “That’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. Pretty sure I already know the answer.”

“Oh, really?” I scoff doubtfully.

“Yeah, really.” His eyes narrow on my face and I find myself wishing we were still separated by the breakfast bar. “Everyone thinks you’re a good time girl. In it for the laughs. Never serious, never sad. Nothing touches you — no friendship drama, no work stress, no lasting relationships. But I don’t buy that for a second. You may look like you’ve got your shit totally together, like nothing ruffles you, but it’s only ‘cause you keep that damn guard up all the time and never let what’s underneath show to anyone, not even your inner circle.”

“Sounds like generic psychobabble bullshit to me,” I snap, pulse beginning to pound. “A one-size-fits all, Dr. Phil diagnosis.”

“Fine. You want me to be more specific?” He steps closer to me, eyes locking on mine. “Guessing you talk to your parents at most once, maybe twice a month, and that’s the way you all prefer it. You can’t remember the last time you had a talk with your brother that wasn’t about him asking for money. You’ve never held a job long-term, not because you’re unqualified or unintelligent, but because you refuse to commit to anything that might require you to give a shit. You push away any guy who attempts to figure you out, because you’re afraid of what might happen if he really got to know you. The real you, not the carefree girl you pretend to be. Even your best friends, who you’d donate a kidney for without being asked twice, are held at arm’s length when it comes to the real shit. You hide it pretty well, but there’s loss in your eyes, just beneath the surface. Because whatever grief you experienced was so great, so all-consuming, you never really moved past it. It’s still with you, putting a spin on everything you do.” He finally pauses, eyes losing a bit of their edge as they catch sight of the look on my face. His voice gentles. “How’d I do? Am I close?”