Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(57)

My brows go up. “Everything okay?”

“It’s just Colton. I’ll call him back later.”

“Oh.” I pause. “I thought you two were friends.”

“We are. Just having a slight difference of opinion, these past few days.”

“Over me,” I guess, guilt swamping me.

“Not just you.” Luca’s mouth flattens into a frown. “He wants me in the gym twenty-four-seven. Not a fan of any deviations from his training schedule.”

“You don’t have to stay here, Luca. The kids are asleep, and Joyce and Ted should be home soon. I don’t want to hold you up.” My eyes flicker over to him. “I’ve already monopolized most of your day. I’d hate to mess up your night as well. I know how important this championship is for you.”

There’s a heavy beat of silence. We stare at each other, wordlessly communicating a thousand things we’re both unwilling to voice aloud.

Go, please go, because if you stay another moment I might kiss you again, I don’t say, trapped in the tractor beam of his light blue irises.

If that was supposed to be a threat, you need to rethink your strategies, Luca doesn’t volley back, mouth twisting in a smirk.

Shit.

After a long moment, he settles in on the other side of Fenway — his back to the kitchen island, his legs extended out across the hardwood.

“I’m good right here, Delilah.”

My stomach somersaults.

For a long time, we don’t say anything else. We just sit there, breathing the same air, stroking the puppy between us with hands that are careful not to accidentally brush, for fear a single spark might light an inferno neither of us knows how to contain.

I force my thoughts from the man beside me and focus on the kitchen, eyes drifting from the pretty mosaic backsplash to the custom cabinetry. The Macombers’ place is as lovely as its inhabitants. It’s strange to think, in a few short days, I won’t live twenty steps away, anymore.

In truth, I’ll miss being their neighbor almost as much as I’ll miss my apartment itself. Joyce and Ted may be in their early forties, but the twenty-year age gap has never been a limiting factor in our friendship. And that’s really all we were — friends — until one morning a few months ago, when a disheveled-looking Ted appeared on my doorstop with the twins in tow and begged me to watch them because their regular babysitter cancelled at the last minute.

Please, just this once, it’s an emergency!

I wanted to say no. I didn’t know a thing about kids, let alone twin five-year-olds with more cumulative energy than a nuclear reactor. It was supposed to be a one time thing, just filling in for a few hours.

I never expected to bond with the mini monsters.

I never expected to be this sad about leaving them.

Luca’s voice interrupts my reverie, which is probably a good thing because my eyes are stinging dangerously.

“We tuckered this guy out. He’s exhausted.” His amused gaze lifts from Fenway’s sleeping form up to meet mine. I attempt a smile, but I must not quite pull it off because his brows lift when he catches sight of it. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lie, mouth twisting. “It’s just really starting to sink in that I’ll be leaving here for good, in a few days. Leaving… everything.” I bite my inner cheek to keep myself in check. “By everything I obviously mean my apartment. Really, how am I ever going to find ceilings that high in a first floor unit ever again? Not to mention rent control! Recessed lighting! Crown moldings! In-unit washer and dryer!”

“And two kids who clearly adore you, living one door down,” he murmurs, seeing straight through to the truth, as always, no matter how hard I try to mask it.

“I suppose I’ll miss them, too.” My eyes are stinging again. “Whatever.”

“You’ll still see them.”

“It won’t be the same, though.” I hold his stare. “None of it will be the same.”

He watches me carefully for a few seconds. Then, moving so slowly it makes my insides shake, as if he thinks anything quicker will make me bolt like a deer coming face to face with a hunter… he reaches out and cups one large hand around my cheek.

I go completely still as soon as his fingertips make contact. For a few frozen seconds, I do nothing at all beneath his featherlight hold. But then… I pull a sharp breath into my lungs, tilt my head, and lean into his touch so my head is resting in his hand.

It feels like surrender — the same sensation I had weeping into his t-shirt. His eyes flare with heat as they scan my face, so close to his own. Electric volts hum through me, radiating outward from my cheekbone until every square inch of my skin seems to pulse with energy.

By all accounts, it’s a simple gesture of comfort — his big palm resting on the fragile bones of my face. Nothing erotic. Hell, I was touched more personally by the dental hygienist during my last cleaning. It definitely shouldn’t feel so…

Intimate.

Yet, inexplicably, it does. Sitting there with him on the kitchen floor, resting my head in his hands, I’m more affected than I want to admit, even to myself. My eyes drift closed at the sensation of his strong fingers on my skin, and without thinking, I lean toward him, drawn to his fortitude like a moth to flame. I’m so tired, so shaken… and he’s so unflinchingly strong. A rock in the ocean, the kind you cling to in hopes of saving yourself from being swept away by the undertow.