“Yeah,really.” His eyes narrow on my face and I find myself wishing we were still separated by the breakfast bar. “Everyone thinks you’re a good time girl. In it for the laughs. Never serious, never sad. Nothing touches you — no friendship drama, no work stress, no lasting relationships. But I don’t buy that for a second. You may look like you’ve got your shit totally together, like nothing ruffles you, but it’s only ‘cause you keep that damn guard up all the time and never let what’s underneath show to anyone, not even your innercircle.”
“Sounds like generic psychobabble bullshit to me,” I snap, pulse beginning to pound. “A one-size-fits all, Dr. Phildiagnosis.”
“Fine. You want me to be more specific?” He steps closer to me, eyes locking on mine. “Guessing you talk to your parents at most once, maybe twice a month, and that’s the way you all prefer it. You can’t remember the last time you had a talk with your brother that wasn’t about him asking for money. You’ve never held a job long-term, not because you’re unqualified or unintelligent, but because you refuse to commit to anything that might require you to give a shit. You push away any guy who attempts to figure you out, because you’re afraid of what might happen if he really got to know you. The real you, not the carefree girl you pretend to be. Even your best friends, who you’d donate a kidney for without being asked twice, are held at arm’s length when it comes to the real shit. You hide it pretty well, but there’s loss in your eyes, just beneath the surface. Because whatever grief you experienced was so great, so all-consuming, you never really moved past it. It’s still with you, putting a spin on everything you do.” He finally pauses, eyes losing a bit of their edge as they catch sight of the look on my face. His voice gentles. “How’d I do? Am Iclose?”
He phrases it like a question, but we both knowit’snot.
He already knows theanswer.
Yes. He’s close. More thanclose.
My heart is thundering. My palms are clammy. My lungs feel too tight, like I can’t catch proper breath. I bite the inside of my cheek and try to focus on the tinge of pain it brings, instead of the pangs inside mychest.
You couldn’t be more wrong!I want to scream at him.You don’t know meatall!
Except, he’s not wrong. In fact, in the span of thirty seconds, he’s somehow summed me up so succinctly and accurately, it’s a littlescary.
“You’re totally off base,” I say weakly. “You don’t know shit about me, LucaBuchanan.”
“Uh huh,” he murmurs, looking like he doesn’t believe a damn word. “You can keep telling yourself that, babe. Doesn’t makeittrue.”
I narrow my eyes in a glare. “And you’re basing this theory on what, exactly? We’ve interacted — as in, actually exchanged words — maybefourtimes since wefirstmet.”
He glares right back at me. “I might not say a lot, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention. Everyone else is so busy being dazzled by that front you put up, they never bother to look beneath it. But I see it. I seeyou,Delilah.”
“That’s— you’re—Ugh!I don’t even know why I bother trying to reason with you.” I plant my hands on my hips. “You’re acondescendingass.”
He shrugs lightly. “Been calledworse.”
“I’m not going to stay here and be insulted.” My voice breaks; I ignore it. “In fact, I’m not going to stay here at all. I’mleaving.”
I whirl around in a flounce of skirts and hair, and stomp awayfromhim.
“Delilah,” Luca calls after me, never shifting from his spot against the countertop as he watches me cross the apartment in angry strides. I pretend not to hear him as I bend to scoop up my keys, snatch my purse off the table, and head for thefrontdoor.
“Delilah,” he repeats, softer this time, appearing suddenly in my path just as I’m reaching for the knob. I didn’t even hear him move. “Where do you think you’re yougoing?”
“Home,” I hiss, scowling up at him. “I’m tired and I need a shower and frankly, I’ve reached my lifetime limit for bossy, macho-manantics.”
“Lifetime limit?” He smirks, the bastard. “Never planning to see meagain,huh?”
“Not never.” My tone is frostier than my gaze. “I suppose there’ll be no avoiding you at Phoebe’s annual Christmasparty.”
“That’s sixmonthsaway.”
“And?”
His lips twitch. “That’s not gonna work for me. Not now that I’ve finally started to figureyouout.”
“The only thing you’ve figured out is how to annoy the crap out of me in thirty secondsorless.”
“If I work on it, sure I could get my time down totwenty.”
My eyes narrow. “Was thatajoke?”
“Never joke about mycapabilities,babe.”
“Stop calling me babe. I’mleaving.”