Take Your Time (A Boston Love Story Book 4) Read online

  TAKE YOUR TIME

  A Boston Love Story

  Julie Johnson

  JOHNSON INK, Inc.

  Copyright © 2017 Julie Johnson

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.

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  This one’s for the hot messes.

  I don't wanna steal your freedom

  I don't wanna change your mind

  I don't have to make you love me

  I just want to take your time

  SAM HUNT

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Need more Boston?

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Playlist

  Also by Julie Johnson

  Prologue

  I may not be that smart or talented or coordinated, but… Actually, I forget where I was going with this.

  Delilah Sinclair, attempting to cheer herself up.

  I’d like to point out that none of this is my fault.

  I know, I know, people always say that. But, seriously, folks — I mean it when I tell you none of this is my fault. None of it. Not the police sirens or the stolen car or even the unfortunate state of my hair.

  You probably have a hard time believing that, examining this situation from an outside perspective. I can practically hear you judging me from here.

  Sure, Lila, it’s definitely not your fault that you landed yourself in this debacle. At this time of night. Wearing that outfit. With exactly three dollars and seventeen cents to your name. Missing a multitude of things, not limited to your iPhone and any remaining semblance of dignity.

  Trust me, I know how it sounds. Frankly, I wouldn’t believe me either. Especially given my track record. Just ask my friends, family members, and former teachers — over the years, I’ve come up with a variety of colorful excuses to weasel my way out of taking responsibility.

  For school assignments: You’ll never believe it, Mrs. Tippen! My essay on photosynthesis was torn to shreds by my grandmother’s schnauzer Peaches just as I was leaving this morning…

  For a traffic ticket: Oh, officer, I didn’t even see that stop sign! I’m just in such a rush to get church, I’m volunteering today…

  For my friends: Wow, there was soooooooo much traffic. Who knew it would be so congested during rush hour?

  For my parents: You called? Twice? Oh, yikes, my phone has really been acting up, I should take it to the Apple store this week…

  I’m not proud of my little white lies but, let’s be honest, I’m not the only one who does it. Heck, there’s a scientific study that claims sixty percent of Americans can’t go ten whole minutes without telling a whopper. (Sampling from my ex-boyfriends alone, I’d peg that statistic closer to eighty-five percent, but I digress.)

  What it comes down to is this: we’re all big, fat liars.

  We lie about our dress sizes, our fears, our favorite movies, and our accomplishments. We lie about things that matter greatly and things of absolutely no consequence. Big things, small things, and all the in-between things. I’m not exempt from that.

  But not this time.

  This time, I’m not making excuses or attempting to pass the blame off on another unsuspecting soul. (Or schnauzer.) My credibility may be shot to all hell, but I swear on my favorite shade of MAC lipstick — may they discontinue it if I prove to be lying.

  This is not my fault.

  I just wish the police officer slapping handcuffs on my wrists saw it the same way.

  Chapter One

  I don’t answer blocked numbers.

  Or unknown numbers.

  Or really any numbers, ever.

  In fact, you should probably just text me.

  Delilah Sinclair, waiting for her phone to stop ringing so she can use it again.

  “You get one phone call. Make it quick.”

  The burly policeman walks away, his broad shoulders filling out his uniform in a way that would normally make me do a double take. Except, right now, seeing as I’m currently standing smack dab in the middle of a jailhouse in a notoriously sleazy Boston suburb, surrounded by drug dealers and drunk drivers and more than a few ladies of the night in seriously killer plastic stiletto heels, I really have no business checking anyone out. Especially a police officer.

  See, handsome single cops don’t really go for the criminal element when it comes to the women in their lives.

  Not that I’m a criminal.

  At least, I wasn’t… until about six hours ago.

  Sigh.

  I’d tell you all about it but, honestly, it’s kind of a long story. And I don’t think Officer McCuffMeAnytimeYouPlease was messing around when he said make it quick and stalked away to file a report without even bothering to give me a good frisking.

  My brown eyes dart a glance down the dingy fluorescent-lit hallway and, to my great amusement, I find he’s watching me with disapproval behind the smeared plexiglass pane separating me from freedom. Judging by his expression, I have a feeling even my infamous puppy-dog look won’t get me out of this one — his brows are pulled together and there’s a muscle jumping in his cheek as his frosty stare sweeps from my strawberry blonde waist-length waves to the perfect shimmery pink polish coating each one of my fingernails. I can’t help but notice he seems personally offended by my outfit.

  Normally, a man giving me crap for my fashion choices would inspire several choice expletives; however, seeing as I’m currently dressed in a ridiculously skimpy French maid uniform that just barely covers my curves, complete with garters, enough cleavage to shock a priest, and a pair of patent black leather pumps that lend an extra four inches to my height… I suppose I can’t really blame him for judging me. A little.

  Who the hell gets arrested looking like Plumette?

  The officer’s lingering eyes take special note of the frilly white apron cinched tight around my waist, but it’s the thigh-high stockings that really seem to do him in. When he spots the sheer black lace, his eyes go from tepid pools of displeasure to pure, polar ice-caps that would freeze a lesser woman where she stood.

  He probably thinks he’s intimidating.

  Hell, he should be intimidating.

  Little does he know, intimidating is my type.

  You see I, Delilah Sinclair — better known as “Lila” to those who learned my name the normal way, rather than reading it off the thin plastic license in my favorite leather Kate Spade wallet as their partner smacked metal cuffs a bit too aggressively around my wrists and shoved me into the backseat of a squad car — have always found an undeniable thrill in chasing men who don’t want me.

  The stiff-upper-lips.

  The commitment-phobes.

  The bad boys.
/>   The ones a smarter girl would take one look at, turn on her sensible shoes, and run from, full-tilt. Do not stop, do not pass go, do not rack up two hundred dollars in credit card debt at your favorite outlet store, even though they’re having a truly incredible sale.

  The thing is, I don’t even own sensible shoes. And if you see me running, well, you should probably start running too, because it means something scary is most likely chasing me. (That, or Marc Jacobs just released his new summer line.)

  I can’t apologize for it.

  I won’t apologize for it.

  These days, everyone is so afraid of being politically incorrect or posting something offensive online or accidentally saying something uncouth in casual conversation, most times it’s safer not to say anything at all. We edit ourselves within an inch of our lives, every day, every damn conversation, just to please people we’ll probably never see again. Hardly anyone says what they feel, or actually owns up to their honest-to-god opinions.

  Not me, though.

  My friends describe me as blunt, which I’m pretty positive is just their way of calling me an asshole in the nicest possible terms. They’re right, though. I say what I feel. I do what I say. I leap before I look and think about the consequences on the way down, just before I hit the ground.

  Splat.

  I don’t believe in all these boring, bullshit standards of propriety in modern society that dictate everything from first date etiquette to thank you card procedures. Which probably explains why, when I see a man who lives by the rules, who runs his life with unwavering restraint… Well, let’s just say, that old opposites attract saying became a cliché for a reason.

  I don’t do it to be cruel. I do it because it’s addictive. There’s something about a challenge that excites me. The more disinterested a man appears at first glance, the more I seem to want him. In my book, unattainable is the ultimate form of sexy.

  Give me a tight-laced man with a stern-set mouth any day… I’ll drive him wild, just to prove I can. Tie his orderly little life right up in knots, until he’s so tangled up in me he can’t even recall what it was like before I melted his cool-blooded calm into an inferno of chaos.

  Before you say it — yes, I’m perfectly aware a therapist would have a field day with me. Whatever. He’d sit there for a two-hundred-dollar-an-hour session, trying to diagnose me; I’d sit there, refusing to take things seriously, probably trying to seduce him. Hell, if he was cute enough, there’s a significant chance I’d get him full-frontal on his leather recliner before my time was up, exploring alternate limits of the term doctor-patient confidentiality…

  Sorry. What was I saying?

  Oh, right.

  I generally make a point to pick men who are allergic to relationships. The players — not only to beat them at their own game, but so I can teach them a few new rules of engagement along the way. And let me tell you… I’m always the MVP.

  The only problem with this, of course, is when I inevitably attain the unattainable… catch the uncatchable… snag and shag the guy all the other girls couldn’t even get close enough to brush with the tips of their French-manicured fingers, until he’d bend over backwards just to make me his…

  Well, that thrill I was chasing?

  It disappears.

  And it’s back to square one.

  Err… to be more specific, back to the closest bar, where I’ll speedily identify another perpetual bachelor over the rim of my martini glass, and start the cycle all over again.

  My girlfriends, worried by my constant revolving-door of conquests, frequently remind me that, statistically speaking, I’m bound to stumble upon a good man eventually. Don’t worry, Lila, they assure me, frowning slightly as I laugh off yet another break-up. There are plenty of fish in the sea.

  True though that may be, as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t mean I have to eat seafood every night. In fact, I’m more of a catch and release kind of girl, when it comes to reeling in men.

  Officer McStudMuffin is still glaring at me from down the hall, so I tilt my head, pop my hip, and waggle my fingers at him in my best flirty wave. My lips twitch when I see his scowl intensify. Damn, he’s even hotter when he wants to throttle me.

  Rather than push my luck, I call on my final shred of common sense and turn to the payphone. I can’t recall ever using one — hell, I didn’t even know they still made these obsolete contraptions anymore. In this modern, thoroughly mobile world, I rather figured they went the way of typewriters, floppy disks, mp3 players, and pagers.

  I pluck the heavy plastic receiver from its cradle and lift it to my ear. Listening to the dial tone buzz flatly, my eyes lock on the small, square metal buttons in front of me. I raise a hand to punch in a phone number, mentally preparing to plead with my best friend Phoebe to come bail me out… attempting to think up some way to explain these rather odd circumstances… and freeze as I realize I can’t call Phoebe.

  In fact, I can’t call anyone.

  Because, thanks to my shameless overdependence on my iPhone — which, unfortunately, I left laying on the floor of my former employer’s bedroom in my hurry to get the hell out of there in one piece — I can’t recall a single, flipping phone number. Not even for my immediate family members.

  How pathetic is that?

  Not that it matters much — they’d be pretty useless to me, at the moment. My parents are abroad again, closing another business deal. I swear, these days, they’re off this continent more frequently than they’re actually on it. Unreachable except by email.

  My big brother Duncan has been incommunicado for the past few months, in the throes of a quarter-life crisis after his latest startup venture failed miserably out in California. This might be worrisome if it was the first company he’d sunk, instead of the sixth. Frankly, I’m not sure why investors keep giving him money. I am sure of one thing, though: even if I knew his number by heart, there’s a slimmer chance of a cat calmly taking a bath than him actually coming to my rescue. Especially considering he’s the whole damn reason I’m in this mess to begin with.

  Of course, it would be different if my sister were here… So many things would be different. I push away that train of thought before it can derail me completely and focus on reality.

  Me.

  Delilah Sinclair.

  Alone.

  Desperate.

  And soon to be forced into a severely unattractive striped jumpsuit of some kind, if I don’t find a way out of this mess.

  What’s black, white, and red all over?

  No, not a newspaper. A redhead in prison stripes.

  My heart drops into my shoes.

  If inanimate objects were capable of mockery, this obsolete payphone would totally be mocking me right now. Alas, as this isn’t the enchanted castle from Beauty and the Beast, the phone is just a phone. It offers no wisdom or advice about what to do in this situation. I stare at it blankly, racking my brain for a number. Any number. Sadly, the only one that comes to mind is from one of those annoying radio jingles for carpet cleaning services.

  Oh my god, I think, horror dawning. My options are either “rot in jail forever with a street-walking cellmate named Destiny” or “agree to steam-clean my entire apartment in exchange for bail money from a man named Stanley.”

  I’m genuinely not sure which alternative would be worse.

  (I really hate to clean.)

  My grip tightens on the receiver to keep it from slipping from my increasingly clammy palm. I’m not generally one to freak out, but I’ve also never been in a situation quite like this before. Even when I dragged Phoebe to Burning Man with me last summer and we got lost in the desert wearing nothing but gold lamé bikinis and body paint, I managed to keep my cool. (Then again, I also knew that, if necessary, Nathaniel Knox — Phoebe’s private-investigator-slash-all-round-badass fiancé — was one satellite phonecall away, fully capable of air-lifting us out by helicopter in under an hour, if necessary.)

  There’s no extraction plan for t
his, though.

  Thanks to my general flightiness and tendency to “go dark” — Phoebe’s words, not mine — for weeks at a time, it’ll take ages for my friends to even realize I’m gone, let alone track me down in this godforsaken place. It’s safe to say, the Mattapan county lockup doesn’t typically make the list of my most frequented Saturday night stomping grounds.

  My hands have really begun to sweat, now, and I can feel beads of perspiration gathering on my brow. Panic is setting in. I won’t last long behind bars. Three days without Starbucks, WiFi, a blow dryer, and a constant stream of relatable internet memes, and I’ll probably spontaneously combust.

  I’m about to set the handle back in its cradle and beg Officer McChiseledJawline for access to a phone book or, at the very least, my email account, when I spot it. A streak of smudged sharpie on my palm.

  My heart begins to pound faster as I turn it over and scan the numbers scrawled in messy, masculine script across my skin. Barely legible, after the thorough scrubbing I gave my hands this morning, but mercifully still there.

  I’m saved!

  …or screwed. Depending entirely on your perspective.

  In the craziness of the past twenty-four hours, I’d completely forgotten about the number on my hand. Though, if I’m being honest, it’s been impossible to stop thinking about the man who put it there. My mind has wandered to him more often than I’d like to admit today, since the moment I woke up with no recollection of the moment he wrote his digits on my palm, like a bad lower-back tattoo you get while wasted on your college spring break trip and regret for the rest of your days.