Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(76)

“Anything else?”

“He needed money. When I couldn’t give it to him, he skipped town.”

“How much?”

The wind blows long, tangled strands of hair across my face. I tuck it back behind my ears. “He said a hundred grand. I have a feeling it’s probably more, though.”

Luca curses.

I can’t blame him. I feel like cursing, too.

“Do you know where he is now?”

I shake my head.

“So, what was the plan, Delilah?” He doesn’t touch me, but his tone softens. “You figured you’d somehow come up with the money, somehow save your brother from his fate?”

“What choice did I have?” I lift my brows. “He’s my brother. He’s the only sibling I have left. Was I supposed to just let them kill him, because he made some bad choices?”

“No. But you sure as shit should’ve asked for help. Did you really figure you were responsible for handling something like this all by yourself?”

I jerk my chin higher, not responding. He already knows the answer to his question.

Yes, that’s exactly what I figured. Because I’m not used to having someone around who might want to be involved; someone who gives a shit about me enough to help when bad guys with big fists come calling.

“You are not alone.” His words are halting. “You don’t have to do this alone, Delilah.”

I nod in agreement, but my head is swimming with doubts. I’ve been alone for so long, I don’t know how to function any other way.

He stares at me, as if he knows I don’t believe his assurances. “I’ll find your brother and drag him back here kicking and screaming, if necessary,” he vows, tone lethally soft. “He’s not dumping this on you.”

“He already did,” I murmur, eyes stinging. I feel like the biggest of fools. Used, abused, abandoned. Not to mention a total idiot, for alienating the one man who’s been saving my ass all week.

Luca runs a hand over his stubble, a tense gesture that underscores how hard it is for him to get out the next words. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I know I was a prick. I just…” His hands curl back into fists. “The thought of someone hurting you… I saw red.”

I nod shakily. It’s probably the closest thing to an apology I’ll ever get from Luca. A typical alpha male, the man doesn’t believe in saying I’m sorry even when he’s wrong.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go get your stuff.”

My brows shoot to my hairline. “Excuse me?”

“Your stuff. Clothes, photo albums, knickknacks, whatever other girly shit you filled all those boxes with, plus that writing desk you’ve got wrapped in bubbles. We’ll get it tomorrow, before the wedding.”

“And we’ll be doing that because…”

“Till this shit is cleared up, you’re staying here. With me. Don’t want you alone.”

“Absolutely not!” I hiss immediately.

“Where else are you gonna go?”

“My parents’ place, in Nantucket.”

“I’ll rephrase. Where are you gonna go that those two thugs or others like them can’t track you down with one fucking Google search?”

Shit.

My mind whirls. “For your information, the Macombers offered me a room and a full-time nannying position. I can stay there.”

“One door down from the place you were attacked? Genius move, babe.” He shakes his head. “You’re staying here. End of discussion.”

“You can’t order me around!”

“Can. Will. Did.”

I glare at him. “You’re being a jerk.”

“Delilah,” he growls, back to his angry smash-stab-kill tones. “Piece of advice — don’t fight me on this. You won’t win.”

With that, he stalks back inside, leaving me (both literally and figuratively) in the dark.



I snuggle with Fenway on the sectional, so pissed off I could spit. Glaring up at the ceiling, I think of a variety of creative ways to take my revenge on the mammoth man in the next room now that I’m his unwilling houseguest. Also known as a hostage.

If he intends to keep me here, I’ll just have to make it equally unpleasant for him.

Switch his sugar out for salt.

Cut holes in the crotch of all his sweatpants.

Change his Netflix password to something obscure.

Walk around nude, just to drive him crazy.

Ha! That’ll show him!

…and probably get me screwed sideways before I can blink.

Which would be bad.

Very bad.

Right?

Crap on a cucumber sandwich.

I sigh and toss onto my other side. Fenway glares at me from his spot on the cushion as if to say, Human, I’m tired, go to sleep already. Rather than risk alienating the other male in my life, I force my eyes closed and start counting sheep.

I’ve only reached four when I hear the French doors swing open. I decide my best strategy is to pretend I’m already asleep, since fighting with him clearly does me no favors. Actually, based on the outcomes of our past arguments, I think arguing with him may make things worse for me.

My sleeping strategy doesn’t work out much better, considering Luca takes one look at me curled up on the couch, slides his hands beneath my body, and scoops me into his arms so fast, there’s not a chance of squirming free.