Tossed Into Love (Fluke My Life 3)

“Princess.”

Antonio’s rough voice greets me with the annoying nickname he uses for me. He crowds my space, forcing me to shuffle back to avoid being pressed against him. (I totally don’t want that.) Once I’m standing in the middle of the empty hall a few feet from him, he closes the door behind him. He crosses his arms over his chest and plants his boot-covered feet wide apart. Lowering the flowers so I can see him, I wish—not for the first time—that I had magical powers to make him seem grotesque. Unfortunately, I don’t have those powers. He only seems to become more handsome each time I see him. His dark hair is lazily styled in a way that makes it look like he just ran his fingers through it, and his olive skin that’s not even been kissed by the sun is a gift from the Italian blood flowing through his veins. He has cut cheekbones, a strong square jaw, full lips, and dark eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes. Last but totally not least, there’s his body—tall, lean, and powerful. I hate him . . . Or I really wish I could hate him.

“Dad can’t have flowers,” he states, moving his eyes from me to the bouquet I’m holding.

My stomach drops.

“Wh-what?”

“Can’t have flowers. He just had surgery, so they don’t want flowers in his room.”

“Oh.” I look from him to the flowers, feeling disappointed. I should have asked before I bought them. I just thought anyone staying in a cold, sterile hospital deserved to have flowers to look at. “I’ll—”

He cuts me off. “I’ll take them to the house.”

My eyes go back to his, and I could swear I catch a flash of regret. I know I imagine it, though. He’s never, not ever, nice to me. Why would he regret being mean now?

“Mom will enjoy looking at them when she’s home.”

He’s right. His mom will enjoy them. She loves flowers, and I know this because even though their house doesn’t have much green space, she plants flowers every spring in the hanging baskets outside their windows and in big pots on either side of her front door. She even has flowers outside the pizza shop in one of the big planters near the street, which on other blocks are normally collecting a fair amount of garbage from passersby.

“Thanks.” I bite my lip as I hold out the flowers toward him. His eyes drop to my mouth and turn angry as he takes them. His angry looks really don’t surprise me anymore. While I’ve been lusting over him, wishing I could hate him, he’s been doing a really great job of hating me. I don’t know what I did to make him dislike me as much as he does, but there is no denying he totally dislikes me.

“You gonna go in and visit?”

“Yes,” I answer, but I don’t move. I don’t move because he looks tired, actually exhausted. I can see that he’s trying to hold himself together and stay strong for his parents.

“Are you okay?” I ask softly, taking a step toward him. Without thinking, I rest my hand on his upper arm. His eyes drop to my hand, then shoot up to mine. Releasing him when I see the look in his eyes, I brace myself. Good thing I do, since the next words that come out of his mouth feel like a punch to the gut.

“My dad had a heart attack, he had surgery, he can’t work, I gotta run the shop, and Mom’s a mess. How do you think I’m doing?” he replies in a clipped tone.

I take a step back and pull in a deep breath so I don’t do something stupid like cry in front of him.

“Why”—I pull in another breath through my nose, fighting back the sting of tears—“why are you always such a jerk to me?” I hold up my hand to cut him off when I see his mouth open. “Never mind. I don’t care.” I turn away from him, put my hand on the door handle, push down, and walk into the room without knocking. I close the door behind me.

When I step into the room, the sight that greets me makes my stomach twist. Tony is lying in the hospital bed asleep, looking pale and thin. Martina is sitting in a chair next to his bed, holding his hand, with her head bowed and her eyes closed.

Seeing Tony in that bed and Martina at his side, a different kind of pain slithers through my chest.

“Cara.”

Martina’s voice startles me, and I focus on her.

“Hey.” I step farther into the room and get close to her. I curve my hand around her shoulder, then bend at the waist to kiss her cheek.

“Cara.” She repeats the Italian word for “dear,” and my eyes start to sting again. I can hear the pain in her voice.