Tossed Into Love (Fluke My Life 3)

“Libby Reed, answer this door right now.”

I force one eye open, then the other. I look at the clock next to my bed. Eight. Way too early to be up when I didn’t get to sleep until after two, when Antonio left.

“Libby!” Miss Ina shouts once more, knocking—no, not knocking—pounding on the door.

“Go away,” I groan, putting my pillow over my head in an attempt to drown her out.

“Answer this door,” she shouts back, banging even more and using a hard object to do it.

Since I know she won’t go away until I get up, I toss back the covers, roll out of bed, and stomp toward the door.

“Miss Ina, it’s only eight in the morning,” I snap as soon as I swing the door open. I find her with a cane in the air, ready to start pounding again.

“I know what time it is, child.” She shoves past me into my apartment. “I waited until seven fifty-five to come up here because I knew it would take me a good five minutes to make it up the darn stairs to your door.”

“You could have called me. I would have come down to you,” I tell her, scrubbing my hands down my tired face.

“You would have ignored your phone until you finally got your behind out of bed.”

She had me there—I would have.

“Okay, so what’s so urgent?”

She narrows her eyes at me.

“Did that Antonio fellow come home with you last night and leave early this morning?” she asks.

“Since you know he was here last night and you were obviously spying on us, you know the answer to that question, Miss Ina.” I sigh, moving toward the kitchen. I’ll need coffee if I’m going to deal with her.

“I wasn’t spying. I can hear everything that happens in this building—even the things I don’t want to hear. Now answer my question.”

“If I do, will you go away so I can get back to sleep?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” I mutter to myself, filling the coffeepot with water.

“You don’t need to make coffee. We’re going to have breakfast together after you tell me what happened last night.”

“What?” I frown, my brain too tired to deal with her right now.

“I got breakfast in the oven downstairs. I made a casserole.”

Oh lord. Why-oh-why did Mac befriend her, and why-oh-why did I think it was a good idea to do the same?

“Now tell me.”

“Antonio came over last night.”

“I know that part. Now tell me what happened,” she snaps.

“We had pizza and watched a movie,” I say, leaving out the fact that neither of us really watched the movie because our faces were glued together through most of it.

“That’s all you did? Just watched a movie?”

“Yes, it was all very PG. Our clothes even stayed on the entire time.”

It’s a half truth, since I did lose my shirt at some point . . . but I kept my bra on.

“Hmm.” She stares at me, and I stare back into her dark, almost-black eyes. I wonder if she can actually read what’s written on my soul. “Good.” She approves of whatever she sees. “Now put on some clothes and help me down the stairs. And hurry up about it. I’m hungry. I’ve been waiting forever on you to eat.”

“You could have eaten without me,” I inform her, leaving out the fact that since I didn’t know we were going to be eating together this morning, it’s not my fault she had to wait. “Never mind, I’ll hurry.” I hold up my hand when I see her eyes turn squinty; then I let out an exaggerated sigh. I leave the coffeepot as is and head for my bedroom.

I brush my teeth, wash my face, then put on a pair of sweats, a bra, and a hoodie. I shove my feet into a pair of slippers. Once I’m ready, I find Miss Ina sitting on the couch. She looks at me like I’ve made her wait a year rather than the maybe five minutes it took me to get dressed.

“Come on, old woman.” I help her up from the couch, then down the stairs to her apartment. When we get inside, the smell of food makes my stomach growl. I smile at the table. “Did you mistakenly invite me instead of the queen?” I ask as she goes into the kitchen.

“No.” She rolls her eyes at me, and I fight back a laugh. The table is set with fancy silverware, beautiful china, crystal cups filled with orange juice, and a gorgeous teapot with matching teacups.

“Sit down,” she orders, bringing a casserole dish to the table and placing it on a trivet. She lifts the lid on another dish, and I see that she made toast.

“I’m starting to think you might like me, Miss Ina,” I tell her as she takes two pieces of toast and places them on the plate in front of me.