Tossed Into Love (Fluke My Life 3)

Once we’re both seated, the hostess smiles at both of us as she sets down our menus on the table. “Your waiter will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you.” I give her a small smile, and she smiles back before taking off.

Looking around and nibbling my bottom lip, all I can think about is that I’m not sitting facing the restaurant.

“This isn’t the good seat,” I blurt out stupidly.

Antonio’s eyes meet mine.

“What?” he questions, placing his napkin on his lap.

I sigh.

“I . . . well, everyone knows the good seat is the seat with the view of the restaurant.” I wave my hand around the room.

“You’re in the safe seat,” he says.

I tip my head to the side in confusion and then ask, “The safe seat?”

“I have the view of the room. If something happens, I’ll know first and will have time to get you to safety before anything can happen to you.”

Holy crap.

“Oh,” I mumble.

“Jesus, have you always been this cute?” he asks.

My chest starts to feel warm at his question.

“Um . . .”

“You have. Fuck me for being so stupid and not seeing it.”

“Um . . . ,” I repeat.

He smiles at me, then takes my napkin and hands it to me. I place it in my lap. We both order drinks when the waiter comes over. I have a glass of wine; he asks for a beer.

“I’m starving. I hope they actually have human-size portions of food at this place,” he says, picking up the menu and looking at it when the waiter walks off.

“You haven’t been here before?”

“No. Mom recommended it when I told her I was taking you out.”

“What?” I feel my eyes grow to the size of saucers.

“I told her I was taking you out, and she said I should bring you here. She said that the food’s good, that you’d like it.”

“Your mom knows that we’re out on a date?” I whisper.

“Yeah . . .”

“Oh my god,” I keep whispering.

His smile turns into a grin.

“She’s happy.”

“I bet she is,” I mutter.

He throws back his head and laughs—loud. Seeing him do it makes the warmth in my chest spread. I don’t think I have ever seen him laugh that freely, so knowing I made him do it makes me want to do it again and again.

“I love your mom, but she can be just as bad as mine,” I inform him as I pick up my glass of water and take a sip.

“Not sure about that, Princess,” he says once his laughter has died down.

“I am.”

“Babe, your mom doesn’t know me from Jack who works at the corner store, but she invited me to come out to Long Island for dinner or brunch.”

“This is true,” I agree. “Then again, my mom knows that I had a crush on you.”

“Had?”

“What?”

“Twice now you’ve said you had a crush on me. Past tense. Meaning you don’t have one anymore,” he explains.

“I . . . you . . . I . . . ,” I stammer. “You’ve kind of been a jerk.”

My softly spoken words taper off while the muscle in his jaw ticks.

Crap. Now why the hell did I say that?

“Right,” he says.

I look down at the menu in front of me, wishing we could go back in time a few minutes.

“I was an asshole,” he says.

My head flies up, and our eyes lock. “I made assumptions I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry about that,” he says.

Seeing the honesty in his eyes, my body relaxes once more.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. I won’t do it again,” he says firmly.

“What changed?” I ask, noticing that his eyes become intense when I do.

“I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you, Libby. Fuck. I’ve imagined you in every position possible, but I wouldn’t let myself go there because . . .” He runs a hand through his hair, looking away before looking back at me. “Those reasons are for another time. Not tonight. But like I said, I made assumptions, and I was wrong.”

“Okay, but what changed?” I ask again.

What he just said makes it sound like all he wants is to sleep with me.

“Everything,” he says.

Like that answers my question. It doesn’t, so I blink at him.

“Everything?”

“There’s a lot of things about you that I didn’t notice until you started helping out at the shop.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling disappointed.

I drop my eyes to my menu.

“You’re the hardest-working person I know.” He grabs my hand. “You give all of yourself to everyone around you. You make each pizza like you’re creating a piece of art. You’re good to my parents and obviously good to yours and your sisters. You’re sweet to the bone. Hell, even your neighbor looks like she wants to protect you from the world when she’d probably break a hip if she tried.”

“Miss Ina is a wild card,” I whisper, having nothing else to say. His words have rocked through me, throwing me off-balance.