Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(32)

The desk sits alone in a corner, legs wrapped in plastic bubbles, the last soldier on the losing side of a battle. I lift my hand and give a mocking salute in its direction.

At ease, soldier. The war’s over. We’ve lost.

As I sit there on the floor, in my own company for the first time in days, it’s so quiet I can hear the sound of my bathroom faucet leaking down the hall. A steady plink! plink!plink! of water against metal that seems to mock me.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Loser. Loser. Loser.

My eyes begin to prick with unwanted tears, so I push the palms of my hands against them tightly, as if to stem the flow. It’s stupid — I’m crying over something that doesn’t make any sense at all. I mean…

I asked Luca to leave. I practically demanded to be alone.

Because, typically, whenever I have a bad day… or, in this case, days… I crave only my own company. But sitting here in the shadow of all my boxes, with the stark solitude crushing in on me from all sides… I’ve never felt less like being by myself in my whole damn life.



After I drag myself out of my morose mental state and into a hot shower, I sleep for so long, I begin to wonder whether I should check with the Surgeon General to find out what length of unconsciousness constitutes an actual coma.

When I wake, delirious and disoriented, I sit straight up on my half-deflated air mattress with absolutely no concept of how long I’ve been out; it could be five hours or five days, I genuinely couldn’t tell you. Scrambling off the mattress with all the elegance of a drunk girl climbing out of an inflatable inner tube, I lose my balance completely on the dismount and sail face-first toward the floor. My forehead smacks into the unforgiving hardwood with enough force to make my eyes water.

Ouch.

Normally, there’d be a plush white rug underfoot, to cushion such a tumble. Alas, a cheery girl named Denise drove away with it strapped to the roof of her Miata three days ago, never to be seen again.

Blinking back tears, I rub my stinging forehead with one hand while the other gropes blindly for my small battery-operated alarm clock — one of my few earthly possessions not yet packed away in cardboard. I can already feel the beginnings of a goose-egg forming. I’ll probably look like a lumpy unicorn in Phoebe’s wedding photos.

Perfect.

When I locate the alarm clock, I gape at the pale green luminescent numbers. It’s 7:30AM. I’ve lost almost an entire day to slumber. Not that I’m necessarily surprised — I was exhausted after Luca dropped me off yesterday. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

My cheeks heat as fragments of last night’s dreams flicker through my head. My subconscious dredged up more than one steamy fantasy involving maple syrup, my tongue, and a pack of abs so chiseled, they make Joe Manganiello look out of shape.

Shit, did I say fantasy?

I meant nightmare.

Definitely, one hundred percent, a total, complete, horrifying, nightmare.

Crap on a cheese strudel.

It probably didn’t help that, after my shower yesterday, I pulled on the first warm piece of clothing I could find when I crawled into bed to crash — which just so happened to be Luca’s borrowed sweatshirt. I woke in the fetal position with it wrapped around my limbs like a warm embrace.

Ducking my chin down to the collar, I inhale deeply. Damn. It still smells like him. I can almost convince myself he’s here with me as I curl my knees up to my chest and I tuck them inside the massive garment. Fully cocooned, I play with a loose thread on the left cuff and tell myself my pajama selection was due entirely to my reluctance to dig through boxes in search of suitable sleeping attire. Not because I wanted to keep his memory close. Certainly not because just the thought of Luca makes me feel undeniably safe, like nothing bad can happen while he’s standing by my side, ready to singlehandedly fight back my demons.

Because that would be utterly ridiculous.

Right?

My excuses sound feeble, even to my own ears.

A huge yawn cracks my face in two. Truth be told, I probably could’ve slept another few hours, despite the risk of entering a full-on vegetative state. I can’t help wondering why I awakened so quickly—

“Lila!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Come on, Lila, open up!”

Oh, right.

That’s why.

Someone’s banging on my door with such little patience in his voice, for a moment I’m worried it might be Gordon Ramsey, come to scold me for taking too long on my risotto dish. I scramble upright and race out of my bedroom, down the hallway to the foyer, dodging boxes as I go. When I reach the front door, I hover behind it, listening hard.

It can’t possibly be him…

He wouldn’t have the nerve to show up here…

Not after all the crap he pulled…

“LILA! Come on, sis, I know you’re home.”

Shit! It is him.

With a sigh, I slide off the security chain and yank open my door.

“Duncan,” I mutter darkly, staring at the sight of my brother standing on my porch in the pale morning light, dark sunglasses over his eyes. There’s a hefty duffle bag slung over his left shoulder and a leather satchel gripped tightly in his right hand.

I’ve barely gotten his name past my lips when he reaches out, shoves my door open wide, and forces his towering frame inside my apartment. He’s hardly cleared the threshold when he slams the door closed behind him and collapses back against it, breathing so hard you’d think he’d just crossed the Boston Marathon finish line.