Tossed Into Love (Fluke My Life 3)

“I’m really okay to walk alone. It’s not even two blocks,” I say, trying once more to tug my wrist from his fingers.

He doesn’t let me go or reply. Instead, he opens the door, shuffles me outside, then shuts and locks it. Scooting me farther to the side, he uses his key to open a metal box there, puts the key in, and turns the dial on it. The metal shutters that cover the glass windows slide down.

“Now, like I said, I’m walking you home,” he tells me once he’s locked the box back up.

I barely resist the urge to kick him in the shin. He finally releases his hold on my wrist, and I grit my teeth as I turn away from him and head for my block. I try not to look like I’m stomping, but that’s exactly what I’m doing. When I finally reach my place, I head up the steps and open the front door to the town house.

“Thanks for all your help tonight, Libby,” he says.

I turn around, knowing my mouth is probably hanging open.

“I appreciate it, and I know Mom and Dad appreciate it, too. You really did do an awesome job.”

“Are you . . . are you being nice to me?” I point at myself.

I swear I see his lips twitch, but I know it has to be a figment of my imagination—just like I must have imagined him thanking me.

“Go on in.” He lifts his chin to indicate the door behind me. “Flicker the lights once you’re upstairs so I know you’re good.”

“Flicker the lights . . . ?” I repeat, feeling my stomach warm.

“Yeah.”

“I’m good. You can go.”

“Lib, go in and flick the lights,” he repeats, sounding like a jerk once again.

I sigh.

“That didn’t last long,” I mutter under my breath as I turn on my heel and head inside.

I swear I hear him chuckle as I shut the door behind me. I figure it won’t kill him to wait a few minutes, so I stop and collect all the mail. I shove it under my arm before I head up to the second floor and use my key to enter the apartment.

Without knowing exactly why I do it, I leave the light off and walk across the apartment to look out the window. I wonder if Antonio actually cares enough to have waited to see that I’ve gotten in okay. When I peek out and see him standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the windows to my apartment, my stomach drops. I rush quickly back across the room, almost falling on my face to get to the light switch. After flickering the lights, I head back to the window and peek out again. I watch him walk down the sidewalk with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. I shake my head, not sure how to deal with the fact that I now know he has the ability to be sweet.

Chapter 3

MOSTLY A JERK

LIBBY

I’m lying on my couch in a pair of old, ratty cutoff sweats, a tank top, and a baggy man’s flannel shirt. My hair is in a bun on top of my head. There’s a half-empty carton of lo mein on the coffee table in front of me, along with an open bag of chips and the candy from the Christmas stocking my mom gave me. I stare at the TV, watching a woman attempt to get away from a ghost—the same ghost that has tried to kill her at least three times since the movie started.

“Don’t go in there,” I whisper to the TV as the woman puts her hand on the door handle of the room the ghost is currently in.

I’m so engrossed in the movie that I jump when someone knocks on my apartment door. I sit up quickly, causing tiny, empty, silver chocolate wrappers to fly out around me. Looking at the door, my heart races.

“Libby?”

Hearing Antonio’s familiar voice, I stare at the door in disbelief.

“Libby?” he calls as I get up off the couch.

I glance at the clock to see that it’s just after eight o’clock. I got home from my parents’ house on Long Island this morning after spending Christmas and a few days with them. It was nice to get away, but I’m happy to be home.

I look out the peephole when I get to the door. Sure enough, Antonio is standing on the other side. Shaking my head, I unlock the dead bolt and pull open the door.

“Antonio, wh—”

“I’ve been calling you.” He cuts me off as he pushes his way into my apartment.

“What?” My eyes go from the hallway to him.

“I’ve called you at least a dozen times, if not more,” he says.

I blink at him.

“What . . . ? Why?”

“You need to work tonight.”

“Pardon?” I hiss, not saying what I really want to say. That would be that I don’t actually work at Tony’s, and that if I go in to help out, I do it as a favor to his parents and him. Yes, I might be getting paid for the time I’m there, but I still don’t officially work at the pizzeria.