Running Into Love (Fluke My Life 1)

Taking it from her with ease, I watch her eyes narrow as I grab the jug from her hand. “I’ll be right back.”

“Levi, you are not doing my laundry,” she semishouts, trying to take the bag from me.

“And you’re not carrying a bag of laundry as big as you are to the basement.”

“I don’t carry it down the stairs,” she cries, tossing her hands in the air. “I carry it to the top of the stairs, then let it roll down to the bottom.”

Staring at her in disbelief, I tilt my head back toward the ceiling, praying she’s not being serious right now but having no doubt that she’s done that exact thing each time she’s done her laundry. “What do you do if someone’s coming up the stairs when your laundry is rolling down?” I ask, and she presses her lips together before planting her hands on her hips.

“That’s never happened. I always make sure no one’s around.”

“I hate to point this out to you, but you are one of the most accident-prone women I have ever met in my life.”

“I’m not accident-prone,” she yells, and I lean in.

“You ran into me, literally ran into me, when you were running with your goddamn eyes closed,” I growl, and she bites her bottom lip.

“Fine,” she huffs. “You can carry it down for me, but I’m doing my own fricking laundry.”

“Fine,” I agree, hefting the bag up onto my shoulder before opening the door. Carrying the bag down the steps, I listen to her light footsteps on the steps behind me as we head for the basement, then mutter a curse under my breath when I see how fucking dark the room is where the washers and dryers are kept. The shit looks like something you’d see in a scary movie. I’ve never been down here, because I have my laundry washed and folded through a service.

“They need to get better lighting down here.”

“It’s fine; it’s always been like this,” she grumbles as I drop her bag on a yellow folding table near the door.

“It’s not safe.”

“The building is secure, Levi. Stop thinking like a cop for five minutes,” she says, opening the bag, pulling out an armful of laundry, and carrying it to one of the machines.

“I am a cop. Telling me to stop thinking like a cop is like asking a doctor not to save lives. This building is secure, but that doesn’t mean criminals don’t live here, or that people don’t give out the code to the door.”

“I give up,” she huffs, putting quarters into the slots in the top of the machine and starting it up before dumping in a cup of detergent.

“I’ll tell the super to put new lights in,” I say, looking at the one yellow bulb hanging in the middle of the room.

“Haven’t you ever been down here before?” she asks, looking over at me as she fills a second machine with laundry.

“Nope.”

“So where do you wash your clothes?”

“I send my laundry out. I don’t have the time or the inclination to do it myself.”

“They have that kind of thing?” she asks, and I smile.

“Babe, you live in Manhattan, one of the biggest cities in the world. They have laundry services.”

“Oh.” Her nose scrunches up adorably. “I don’t know how I’d feel about someone besides me washing my clothes. What if they’re a weirdo?”

“You don’t think that someone could come down here and pull your panties out of the dryer to sniff them?”

“Don’t say that,” she cries, looking horrified. “Now I’m going to have to sit down here while my laundry’s in the machine, because I’m not going to be able to stop thinking that someone is down here doing that.”

“You’ll worry about that but not about the fact that you could kill someone or yourself getting your laundry down here? Or the lighting in this room?” I shake my head, and her eyes narrow.

“I’ve been doing my laundry down here for over two years and nothing has ever happened, so I’m pretty sure I’m good, and besides that, until you came along, I had never been accident-prone. So maybe my sudden clumsiness is all your fault.”

“You did say I make you dizzy.” I grin, and she rolls her eyes.

“You are so full of yourself,” she huffs, picking up her jug of detergent and heading for the door. Following her up the first flight of steps, I watch her ass, then give in and toss her over my shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she squeaks as I jog up the steps.

“We’re getting to the good part of the day.”

“The good part?” she asks, and I pull her down until she’s in front of me and her legs are wrapped around my hips.

“Yeah, the part where we spend a couple hours making out.”

“Oh,” she breathes as I push open the door of her apartment, taking her mouth while I carry her across to the couch. We spend most of the day there, only stopping to eat and go downstairs to change over laundry.

Chapter 9

WAY TOO FAST

FAWN

Knocking on Levi’s door, I chew on my bottom lip in nervousness. When I left him this morning to catch my train, I hadn’t planned on seeing him again until after the weekend. But once I got to my parents’ house out on Long Island and walked through the door, all I could do was think about him being home alone tomorrow on Thanksgiving. My mom, who knew exactly why I was in such a strange mood, pulled me aside and suggested I leave and spend the holiday with Levi. I didn’t debate for a second. I kissed my family goodbye and got back on the train to come home. Only now I’m wondering if I should have. Yes, the last two weeks with Levi have been amazing—magical, really. But we are still very new, and spending holidays together is a big, giant step forward, even if we have spent every night in the same bed and under the same roof unless he had to work.

Hearing the locks click, I come out of my head and pull my shoulders back, feeling my stomach fill with nervous butterflies.

“Baby.” His eyes scan over me slowly from head to toe, like he’s checking to make sure I’m okay. “What’s going on? Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, I . . .” I pause, wondering what I should say, exactly, then figure the truth is probably the best place to start. “I couldn’t stand the idea of you being home alone tomor—” My words come to an abrupt end as he nabs my hand and pulls me into his apartment, slamming the door, pushing me back against it. My purse falls to the floor. “Levi—” My hands go to his bare chest as he moves closer, pressing his body against mine.

“You—” He pauses, searching my face, and I watch his eyes darken to a deeper, richer amber color. “You came back to spend Thanksgiving with me?” he asks quietly, and I feel my face soften as my hands move up his chest to his shoulders while his hand wraps around the back of my head and his fingers slide up into my hair.

“Yes, I came back to spend Thanksgiving with you.”

“We have no food for tomorrow,” he says, dropping his mouth to my neck, licking up the column of my throat as his free hand slides up the front of my shirt, over my stomach, stopping to rest on the underside of my breast.

“Th . . . that’s okay,” I pant, pressing my head back into the door as his lips, tongue, and teeth work along my neck. “We can eat out,” I moan as he pulls down the cup of my bra and slides his thumb over my nipple.

“No,” he denies, shaking his head. “I don’t want to eat out.” He licks up to my ear, making the space between my legs pulse. “I want to eat you.”

“Oh,” I breathe, closing my eyes. We’ve done a lot—I mean, a lot—of fooling around over the last two weeks, but he’s never gone too far and has always stopped before things could get out of hand, insisting I need to understand what giving myself to him means.

“You’re mine, Fawn, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” I don’t even hesitate or try to deny it. I’m his, all his. He pulls back to look at me, and I stare into his eyes, which have become so familiar and so important.

“There’s no going back. I won’t let you go,” he says with a finality that should scare me

as his hand tangles more tightly in my hair, like he’s afraid his words will cause me to disappear.

“Good,” I say, meaning that sentiment with everything in me. I don’t want him to let me go. Ever. I know this is fast, but I also know the thought of being without him makes me panic.