Tossed Into Love (Fluke My Life 3)

“So . . . ?” Peggy asks as soon as Hector and Antonio are out of earshot.

“So . . . what?” I play dumb and hand a customer the pizza he ordered.

Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head. “Your blind date! How did it go?”

“It was good.” I shrug.

“Good?” she prods, tipping her head to the side and studying me.

“Walter was nice and sweet . . . and . . . well . . .” I pause, shrugging again. “The date went great, but he lives in LA and . . .”

“And Antonio?” she guesses.

I nod, and for some stupid reason, I feel like I’m going to cry.

“Oh, honey.”

“I’m okay.” I shake off the feeling, refusing to give in to it. I’m not even sure when I started to care so much about him.

“Right . . . ,” she says, but I can tell that she doesn’t actually believe me. “It will be okay.”

“Yeah,” I agree.

Not wanting to talk about it anymore, I grab a rag and busy myself with cleaning tables. After that, I help Hector make pizzas and set up orders until we close. Around ten, Antonio finally comes out of the office to lock up. I go into the back kitchen to start washing the dishes that have piled up in the sink throughout the evening.

“See you tomorrow.” Peggy pokes her head through the door to the back kitchen, and I smile at her.

“See you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

“You, too, honey.”

“Later, chiquita!” Hector calls loudly.

“Later, Hector!” I shout back.

Peggy smiles once more, then disappears from the doorway.

“You can go, too,” Antonio says, stepping into the kitchen where I’m still washing dishes.

“I’m almost done,” I point out unnecessarily since he can see that I only have a few more things to wash.

“I can handle the rest.”

“And so can I.” I turn my back on him and get back to washing, doing it loudly on purpose and banging the dishes in the metal sink as I wash them.

“How was your date?”

“It was good. Walter was nice.”

“Walter?” He spits out the name, and I turn to look at him.

“Yes. Walter,” I repeat, locking my eyes with his and feeling my heart start to pound strangely against my rib cage. My knees go weak as the air around us changes. It seems to fill with electricity that causes the small hairs on the nape of my neck to stand on end.

“Did you sleep with him?”

“Is that any of your business?” I hiss, leaning toward him.

“Did you?” he growls.

Anger—along with something else I can’t identify—fills the pit of my stomach.

“That’s none of your business.” I toss the sponge in my hand at him, and it lands against his chest with a wet thud before falling to the floor. His eyes go to where it landed, then slowly lift to meet mine. They darken.

Backing up, I look around for a way to escape.

Crap.

“There’s nowhere to run,” he says.

My eyes fly to his again. “Stay back.” I grab the spray nozzle from the sink and raise it toward him with my fingers on the trigger.

“Put it down, Libby.”

“No.”

“Put it down,” he demands.

I press the trigger, and water hits him in the chest. His eyes narrow; then he lunges at me.

I swear . . . I swear I don’t know what happens next . . . One second we’re both fighting to get control of the water, and the next, everything has boiled over.

We both move at the same time. His arms go around me tight, mine doing the same in return. His tongue thrusts into my mouth, and I follow his lead. Our mouths are nipping, licking, biting, fighting for supremacy. Our hands explore, mine up his shirt and his up mine. My back hits the wall next to the door, and his mouth leaves mine and begins traveling down my neck. Whimpering deep in my throat, I tip my head to the side to give him more access while my hands travel up the smooth, hard, warm skin of his back.

“Fuck. You smell good but taste better.”

He nips my neck, and I score his back with my nails and listen to him groan in approval. His hands move to my ass, and he lifts, picking me up off the ground. Surrounding him with my legs, I drop my mouth back down to his while he carries me through the dimly lit shop to the office. Laying me on the couch, he comes down on top of me.

Things go from wild to frenzied. His hands move under my T-shirt; then it’s gone. I do the same with his, tossing it to the floor. Leaning back, he traces the lace edge of my bra with his fingers and then tugs it down, dips his head, and pulls my nipple into his warm mouth, sucking hard. I cry out, raising my hips into his and grinding myself against him as he cups my neglected breast, pulling at my nipple through the lacy material. My core clenches, and my mind starts to catch up with what’s happening as he kisses down my stomach to the edge of the jeans I have on.