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

Heeeeey, what’s up? You’ll never guess where I am…

I listen to the rings — one, two, three jarring peals — and begin to think he’s not going to answer. It’s late, well after midnight… he’s probably sleeping… or his phone is on silent… or he’ll think it’s a mis-dial…

“Talk.”

His voice is deeper than usual, as if I’ve woken him, but I’d recognize that trademark growl anywhere. It’s him.

I open my mouth to say something… and find I cannot formulate one single, non-idiotic word. My tongue quite literally refuses to cooperate.

“Hello?” He waits a beat, listening to me breathe. “Who is this?”

I hear a rustling sound — skin against sheets —and an entirely NSFW image shoots into my brain.

Does he sleep naked?

“Last chance,” he grumbles, impatient as ever.

Crap con queso.

He’s going to disconnect.

“Wait!” I squeak in a small voice that makes me sound like I’ve swallowed a balloon animal. “Please, just… don’t hang up.”

Utter silence blasts across the line. I hold my breath, afraid to squeak out another word, completely at a loss as to what I’m going to say next. To my everlasting regret, before I can think of a dignified way to explain my current situation, he speaks again. And when he does, that sleepy edge is gone from his voice. It’s been replaced with something that sounds a lot like amusement and… gloating.

“That you, Delilah?”

My jaw clenches. “Don’t call me that.”

“So, she finally uses my number. If I’d known all it would take to get your attention was a sharpie, I might’ve done this months ago.” A low chuckle hits my ear, and I squirm a little. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I grip the receiver a little tighter, wishing I could reach through the line and punch him.

“If you’re hoping for a bootycall…” He pauses pointedly. “I can be at your place in twenty.”

“Oh, dream on,” I snap, indignant at the suggestion. (As if I hadn’t been picturing him naked approximately twenty-seven seconds ago.)

“I was dreaming,” he reminds me. “You just woke me. And it was a good dream. Amy Adams was in it. So, unless you’re about to make a point, I suggest you let me get back to her.”

I roll my eyes.

“Well?” he prompts. “What’s it gonna be?”

“I…” My teeth chew my bottom lip. “I… sort of… need your help.”

He goes silent for a beat, contemplating that. “Gonna need a few more details, babe.”

I hedge. “Well, see, I’m in a bit of a jam. I’m sort of… stranded.” My voice drops. “And… I didn’t have anyone else to call.”

I can’t see him, obviously, but there’s a tangible change in his demeanor, evident even across a phone line.

“Are you safe?” His voice is abruptly serious. In less than two seconds, he’s shifted gears from teasing to intense. It’s disarming.

“Yes,” I murmur. “I’m safe.”

I hear crinkling sounds — him, pulling on clothes. “Will you be able to stay safe until I get there?”

“Yes,” I assure him, feeling like the grandest of fools. “I’m fine. Phone-less, but fine. Honestly…” I swallow hard. “Listen, you don’t have to come. I just need you to get in touch with Phoebe for me, she won’t mind…”

“Not a chance. I’m coming.”

My eyes widen. “You’re not going to ask me any questions?”

He barely hesitates. “Babe. You called me, a man you usually refuse to give the time of day, in middle of the damn night, sounding scared instead of like your usual sassy, full-of-shit self—”

I roll my eyes, at that.

“—and you tell me you’re in trouble. I know you said you’re safe, but I also know you’re in more than a bit of a jam if you had to resort to calling me.” He pauses. “Furthermore, I know I’m gonna be the one who helps you.”

My mouth parches. “But Phoebe really won’t mind. In fact, she kind of owes me—”

He cuts me off, sounding even more growly than usual. “Address.”

I blink in surprise. “Phoebe’s address?”

“No.” I hear a door slam closed through the receiver. “I’m already on my way. Tell me where I’m headed.”

Bossy, arrogant, stubborn man.

My hold tightens on the receiver. “I could be in Tibet, for all you know.”

There’s a beat of stony silence. “Are you in Tibet?”

I sigh. “No.”

“Delilah.” An engine rumbles to life. “Address. Now.”

“Mattapan,” I mumble, wincing. “At… the county jail.”

He pauses, digesting that tidbit, and when he speaks again, his voice is almost… soft. For some reason, that unnerves me far more than his growls or grumbles or gloating comments.

“Hold tight. I’ll be there in thirty.”

The line goes dead as he clicks off.

Crap with a side of extra fries.