Author: Julie Johnson
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Release Date: June 11, 2017
Hosted by: Buoni Amici Press, LLC.
Maybe it's the way she walks (in skyscraper designer heels) or the way she talks (in total absence of a filter) or simply the shade of her hair (strawberry blonde). Maybe it's the string of broken hearts she's left across the city of Boston. (Sorry, boys.)
For Lila, catching a man's attention is never a struggle. It's the part that comes later – the happily-ever-after part – that always seems to trip her up. All her friends may be settling down, but this fiery redhead has no intentions of ever being tamed…
Until she meets a man just as wild.
Luca "Blaze" Buchanan is the best fighter to come out of Boston in years. Men want to be him, women want to be with him, and no one smart ever bets against him. He's more savage than knight-in-shining-armor, but that suits him just fine: he has no plans to ever allow a woman to domesticate him.
That is, until a certain sultry redhead finds herself in need of salvation. In the midst of sudden danger, their slow-burning attraction sparks into something far hotter… an inferno neither of them knows how to put out.
One thing is indisputable: no one is walking away without getting singed...
** TAKE YOUR TIME is a full-length contemporary romance about a girl determined not to settle… and the alpha who tears her careful plans into pieces. It is the fourth installment of the internationally bestselling BOSTON LOVE STORY series and can be read as a complete standalone. Due to sexy scenes, a sassy, red-headed heroine, and a bossy, unbearably sexy hero, it is recommended for readers ages 17 and up. **
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…
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.
“Last chance,” he grumbles, impatient as ever.
Crap con queso.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.
If you’d told me twenty-four hours ago that Luca Buchanan, Boston’s most badass MMA fighter, would be on his way to bail me out of jail… I’d have laughed in your face. Now, all I can do is set the handset in its cradle with a dull click, lean back against the gunmetal gray precinct wall, and wonder what the ever-flipping heck I’m going to do when he gets here.