Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(29)

He phrases it like a question, but we both know it’s not.

He already knows the answer.

Yes. He’s close. More than close.

My heart is thundering. My palms are clammy. My lungs feel too tight, like I can’t catch proper breath. I bite the inside of my cheek and try to focus on the tinge of pain it brings, instead of the pangs inside my chest.

You couldn’t be more wrong! I want to scream at him. You don’t know me at all!

Except, he’s not wrong. In fact, in the span of thirty seconds, he’s somehow summed me up so succinctly and accurately, it’s a little scary.

“You’re totally off base,” I say weakly. “You don’t know shit about me, Luca Buchanan.”

“Uh huh,” he murmurs, looking like he doesn’t believe a damn word. “You can keep telling yourself that, babe. Doesn’t make it true.”

I narrow my eyes in a glare. “And you’re basing this theory on what, exactly? We’ve interacted — as in, actually exchanged words — maybe four times since we first met.”

He glares right back at me. “I might not say a lot, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention. Everyone else is so busy being dazzled by that front you put up, they never bother to look beneath it. But I see it. I see you, Delilah.”

“That’s— you’re— Ugh! I don’t even know why I bother trying to reason with you.” I plant my hands on my hips. “You’re a condescending ass.”

He shrugs lightly. “Been called worse.”

“I’m not going to stay here and be insulted.” My voice breaks; I ignore it. “In fact, I’m not going to stay here at all. I’m leaving.”

I whirl around in a flounce of skirts and hair, and stomp away from him.

“Delilah,” Luca calls after me, never shifting from his spot against the countertop as he watches me cross the apartment in angry strides. I pretend not to hear him as I bend to scoop up my keys, snatch my purse off the table, and head for the front door.

“Delilah,” he repeats, softer this time, appearing suddenly in my path just as I’m reaching for the knob. I didn’t even hear him move. “Where do you think you’re you going?”

“Home,” I hiss, scowling up at him. “I’m tired and I need a shower and frankly, I’ve reached my lifetime limit for bossy, macho-man antics.”

“Lifetime limit?” He smirks, the bastard. “Never planning to see me again, huh?”

“Not never.” My tone is frostier than my gaze. “I suppose there’ll be no avoiding you at Phoebe’s annual Christmas party.”

“That’s six months away.”

“And?”

His lips twitch. “That’s not gonna work for me. Not now that I’ve finally started to figure you out.”

“The only thing you’ve figured out is how to annoy the crap out of me in thirty seconds or less.”

“If I work on it, sure I could get my time down to twenty.”

My eyes narrow. “Was that a joke?”

“Never joke about my capabilities, babe.”

“Stop calling me babe. I’m leaving.”

“So you said.”

“Get out of my way.”

He doesn’t budge. “Why exactly are you leaving?”

“I’m exhausted. I need a shower, a nap, and a glass of wine — not necessarily in that order. And I want to be in my own home, for the remaining few days before I’m physically removed by my landlord, thank you very much.”

“Delilah—”

“Luca,” I mimic in a snotty tone. “Move. You can’t keep me captive here forever. I’m going home.”

“How you getting there, exactly?”

Shit. I forgot about my lack of car, phone, and cash.

“I’ll walk,” I say stiffly.

“To Beacon Hill.”

My chin jerks higher. “Yes.”

“In that outfit.”

Double shit. I forgot about the maid uniform.

“Yes,” I snap stubbornly.

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly exasperated with me. Reading the determination on my face, he heaves a heavy sigh and pulls the keys from his pocket.

“Come on, then. I’ll drive you.”





Chapter Six





Behind every strong girl… is a tribe of other strong girls who proofread her emails really quickly when they have a second.



Delilah Sinclair, forwarding her resume to her best friends.





The trip to my apartment is marked by strained silence.

Gone is the playful air of two people who battled over maple syrup, who leapt over couch cushions and nearly kissed in his foyer. We walk in total quiet — two ships sharing the same ocean, buoyed along momentarily by a single current but ultimately destined to go separate ways as soon as the wind shifts.

On our way out, Luca grabs a sweatshirt off the hook by the door and passes it to me without a word. Part of me wants to object, just to be obstinate, but the rest of me sincerely wants to avoid being seen in broad daylight dressed like this, so I pull it over my head.

It’s laughably large on my frame — practically a dress. Warm and gray, it smells like mint and spice and ever so faintly of sweat. A distinct, delicious combination of aromas I’ve come to associate with only one man.