Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(31)
“You’d have figured something out.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” I try out a smile. “Those police officers were a hell of a lot nicer to Blaze Buchanan than they ever were to me.”
His eyes never shift from mine. “You’d have been just fine. Doubt there are many things on this earth you can’t handle, Delilah.”
I swallow hard. Shit. I can handle his gruff commands and sarcastic commentary no problem… but when he’s sweet, something in my chest starts to feel too tight.
“I’ll pay you back for the bail money. I might not be able to right away, because… well, you know my financial situation.”
He nods. “You don’t have to pay me back at all.”
“I do, though.” I steady my shoulders. “I may not have a penny to my name, but I’ve still got my pride.”
“Wouldn’t be you, if you didn’t.”
My grip curls around the handle. I strive for a casual tone, but my throat feels clogged with feelings I don’t want acknowledge.
“I’ll see you around, Buchanan.”
“Count on it, Delilah.”
My brows lift at the assuredness of his statement, but I don’t comment.
If Luca thinks our paths will cross again in the near future, he couldn’t be more wrong. This — him coming to my rescue, cooking me breakfast, being my personal savior — was a one-time thing. A fluke. Certainly nothing to be repeated any time soon.
Or ever, if I can help it.
With a faint smile that doesn’t reach my eyes, I shove open the door and hop down from the truck before he can say another word. I walk on shaky legs up the stone steps to the front door of my narrow brick row house, clutching my purse so hard my fingertips turn white, wishing I couldn’t feel the weight of his eyes lingering on me as I shove my key into the lock. It’s only after I’ve closed the front door behind me and collapsed back against it with a sigh of utter exhaustion that I hear the roar of his engine as he drives off.
Away from the curb. Down my street. Out of my life.
It’s for the best, I tell myself. No good can come of that friendship.
Trying to stay platonic friends with Luca Buchanan would be like playing with fire and assuming you won’t get burned to a crisp. If you value your life even remotely, it’s better to avoid the flames altogether.
Sinking down to the floor with my back to the wooden doorframe, I stare around at my home with bleary eyes. I used to love this place more than anywhere on earth. For the past three years, it’s been a refuge, a hideout from the rest of the world. The one place that’s ever belonged entirely to me.
And I’m about to lose it.
People always seem skeptical, when I say I live alone.
Don’t you get lonely?
My answer is usually an eye roll or a bemused grin, depending on who’s asking the question. Personally, I love cohabitating with no one except my shadow. My keys are always exactly where I’ve left them, no one ever finishes off my leftovers without asking permission, and I’ve never once had to fight to do a load of laundry or take the first shower in the morning. I suppose it’s a natural progression, after living with a houseful of noisy, nonstop party girls all through college, first in the dorms and later in a dilapidated house we rented for dirt cheap off campus. It was fun while it lasted, but I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t jump at the chance to sign a solo lease as soon as my graduation tassel flipped from the right side of my cap to the left.
I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my time alone. I don’t have parties. I rarely have friends over. I never bring men back here with me. My last three boyfriends were summarily dismissed as soon as they started asking that pesky question.
Why don’t we ever sleep at your place?
It’s easier to make excuses than tell them the truth — bringing you into my space, letting you into that part of my life, is a commitment I’m not willing to make. Just one more string I’ll inevitably have to cut, when this ends.
I spent months agonizing over tasteful yet trendy decor to fill these rooms. Weeks papering the walls in a gorgeous champagne shade I picked to make the dark wood floors and heavy fireplace mantle a bit more feminine.
That wallpaper is the only vestige of me left in this place, now. It’s practically unrecognizable as my gaze moves over the many stacks of boxes piled across my living room. The entire apartment feels foreign, as if it already belongs to a new tenant now that all my pretty things are boxed up to be carted off to a new — read: cheaper — zip code. Assuming I can find somewhere to go in the next three days.
I’ve already sold most of my furniture on Craigslist over the past few weeks, for petty cash from hopeful internet hagglers. It was tough to part with my pretty white Crate & Barrel sectional, my chic side table, the plush faux fur ottoman I went to three separate stores to locate last fall. Harder still to say goodbye to my stately four-poster bed frame and the mirrored vanity set I spent so many mornings sitting in front of, perfecting my makeup.
There’s really only one piece left, at this point — one I refuse to part with, no matter how broke I get. They’ll have to pry that antique writing desk out of my cold dead hands before I’ll ever give it up. It’s the only thing of Mimi’s I took from the Nantucket estate when I left. I doubt my parents even noticed it was gone. They’re hardly ever there, anymore. It’s too painful for them.