Running Into Love (Fluke My Life 1)

“Uh, hi . . .” I move my eyes past his shoulder toward the hall to see if his girlfriend is with him.

“Hey,” he says softly, then lifts up my chin, and his eyes scan mine. “What the hell is wrong?”

“Nothing.” I tug my face away from his fingers when his touch practically burns me.

“Something’s wrong, you’ve been crying.”

“I was watching a movie.”

“You were watching a movie?”

“Yes, I was watching a movie,” I huff, dropping my eyes to glare at Muffin when she whines and paws the door to get to him. Traitor.

“What movie are you watching?”

“It doesn’t matter, did you need something?” I ask, looking in the vicinity of his chin, not having the willpower to look him in his beautiful eyes.

“You didn’t knock.”

“Pardon?” I frown, trying to keep up, but the wine sloshing around in my system is making it difficult.

“Can you look at me?” Reluctantly my eyes meet his, and I hold on to the doorjamb to keep standing as my head grows dizzy from the wine I’ve drunk.

“Why does he have to be gorgeous?” I think—or think I think it, but his lips curve into a very sexy smirk, letting me know I’m drunker than I think I am.

“You think I’m gorgeous?”

“I . . . um . . .” I shake my head.

“Have you been drinking?” he asks suddenly, and I pull myself up to stand at my full height, then tip slightly to the side.

“I had a cup of wine.”

“A cup of wine?”

“Yes, a cup of wine. Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

“Okay . . . What the fuck is really going on?” he growls, and I automatically lean back.

“Nothing is going on. It’s my birthday, I—”

“I know it’s your birthday. That’s why I brought you a cake,” he cuts me off, and I blink. Um, what? Did he just say he brought me a cake? He holds a pink box up between us that I didn’t notice before. I look at it, then him. “My sister-in-law owns a bakery. She was coming into the city today, so I had her bring a cake for you.”

“What?” I breathe.

“Jesus.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath, then puts his hand to my belly. When he pushes me back into my apartment I almost fall, but I stumble into him as his hand grabs onto the front of my hoodie and he pulls me roughly into his hard chest . . . Unfortunately he does it with the box holding the cake, so it’s flattened between us.

“Oh no,” I whisper, looking from the box to his somewhat amused and slightly pissed, very handsome face.

“Will everything with you always be difficult?”

“I ruined your cake,” I shout, attempting to push away from him, but he doesn’t let me go.

“Actually, you ruined your cake,” he mutters, and I feel it coming on—I know I’m about to cry again. Only this time it’s worse, because I’m going to ugly cry in front of him.

“I’m sorry.” I squeeze my eyes closed and duck my head, trying to fight back the inevitable tears I feel building behind my closed eyelids.

“It’s just a cake.” He holds me up against him as he leads me across the room. “Have you been crying all night?” he asks, and I open my eyes and catch him studying the mound of Kleenex on the floor. The cracker Muffin spit out crunches under my bare foot as he helps me sit.

“Yes . . . no . . . maybe . . . I was watching P.S. I Love You,” I whisper, lifting my foot to dust off the cracker bits stuck there. I need to do something so I don’t just blurt things out anymore.

“Are you not feeling well?”

“Pardon?”

“You ate soup and crackers for dinner. Are you feeling okay?”

“I always eat expired soup and crackers on my birthday,” I mutter under my breath, and his eyes narrow. Shaking his head he pulls out his phone, and I sit up. “What are you doing?”

“I’m ordering a pizza. What kind do you like?”

“Why are you ordering pizza? I already ate soup.”

“The bowl’s still full.” He points at the tray with my still almost full bowl of soup and stale crackers, then picks up my mound of Kleenex, placing them on the tray before he carries it all to the kitchen while putting the phone to his ear. “Are you good with half Hawaiian, half pepperoni?”

“Uh yeah,” I agree as my stomach growls and my mouth waters.

With a nod, he gives the person on the phone the order and the address, then shoves the phone into his back pocket. Needing to look at anything but him, my eyes go to the box sitting on the coffee table. It’s ruined—so smashed that cake is squeezing out of the open edges. Untying the string around the box, I open the lid and feel my stomach dip. The cake was decorated with a fawn colored with light-orange icing. Or at least I think it’s a fawn—now that it’s squished, it looks like a chubby bear playing in grass.

“You had your sister-in-law make this cake?” I whisper.

“Yeah.”

“That was nice,” I say absently, wondering why he would ask her to make me a cake for my birthday when we don’t even really know each other. Swallowing through the strange feeling in my chest, I finally work up the courage to look at him. “I was going to knock on your door earlier, but . . .” I look away, wondering if I should just come out with it, then figure, what the hell. “I thought your girlfriend was over and I . . . I thought that you were just being nice when you told me I should knock on your door on my birthday,” I sa

y, looking back at him and noticing his eyes have changed ever so slightly.

“I’m not that nice, and I don’t say things I don’t mean. Ever,” he says, petting Muffin, who is currently leaning into his side with her full weight. “And I don’t have a girlfriend. You probably saw my brother’s wife, Ruby, since she’s the only woman who’s been to my place since I moved in.”

God, I’m really bad at this stuff. I assumed he had a girlfriend, cried about it like an idiot, then ruined the cake he had made for me, because once again, I’m an idiot. Covering my face with my hands, I hiccup as the tears I’ve been holding back start to fall. Stupid fricking period. Feeling the couch dip as he takes a seat next to me, I startle when his arm wraps around my shoulders and he guides me to rest against his chest. “I’m not normally this lame,” I cry, and I’d swear I hear him laugh, but I ignore it since I know it will piss me off if I think he’s making fun of me.

“It’s okay, birthdays are hard.”

“It’s not that. I’m a girl and the red bitch is due any day and she ruins my life every month when she comes into town.” I sniffle, feeling his chest shake. “Oh god, I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Take a breath. It’s all good.” It’s not all good—I’m blubbering against his chest like a baby on my birthday when we don’t even know each other, and to top it off, I told him I’m getting my period.

“I’m sorry, you probably think I’m a weirdo now.”

“Actually, I think you’re cute,” he says quietly, rubbing my arm. Cute, he thinks I’m cute? I take a chance and peek up at him, and he softly rubs his thumb under my eye, then down the bridge of my nose, tapping the end. My eyes cross. “Definitely cute.” Swallowing, I lean away from him, needing to put some space between us. This is too much, whatever this is. It’s way too intense for me right now. “And . . . the walls are back up.”

“Um . . .”

“It’s all good. I’m patient.” What does that mean? Before I can ask that exact question, the buzzer in my kitchen goes off, telling me that someone’s at the door downstairs. “That’s the pizza. I’ll be back.”