Tossed Into Love (Fluke My Life Book 3) Read online

  “You’re a good girl.” She covers my hand with her own, giving it a squeeze. “One day Antonio will open his eyes and see that, too.”

  Her statement doesn’t surprise me. She’s gotten it in her head that her son and I should be together. I used to tell her it’d never happen while secretly hoping it would. Now I don’t secretly wish for anything having to do with her son.

  “You look pretty today. Did you do anything fun?”

  “Just work.”

  “You work too much.”

  This is spoken in a rough, low voice. My eyes fly to the bed. Tony’s tired eyes are open and on me.

  “Hey, you.” I get up and walk around to the opposite side of the bed so I can lean over him and kiss his cheek. “How are you feeling?” I ask when I lean back.

  He rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. Just wish everyone would stop worrying so much,” he says.

  I smile softly.

  “He wants to get out of here,” Martina says. My eyes go to her. “He keeps complaining to the doctors about how many tests they are running, how many drugs they are giving him, and how long he has to be here for.” She shakes her head.

  “I should be allowed to leave when I want,” he grumbles.

  “I think the doctors know what they’re doing. Maybe you should listen to them,” I suggest.

  He presses his lips tightly together. “They want me to go to rehab at some fancy place upstate. I don’t have time to do that. I have a business to run.”

  “You’re going,” Martina says firmly. Tony looks over at her. “If the doctors say you need to go, you’re going. End of discussion.” She slashes her hand in the air, and he sighs.

  “A man should be allowed to make his own choices.”

  “How about you focus on getting well?” I say.

  He looks at me. “I don’t think I have a choice in the matter.”

  “I think you’re right about that,” I agree. I swallow down a bubble of laughter when he directs an annoyed glare at his wife.

  Yes, Tony and Martina love each other—but lord do they bicker all the time.

  Hearing a knock at the door, I turn my head. A man wearing dark-blue scrubs comes into the room, pushing a wheelchair. He greets everyone with a smile.

  “I’m here to take you for your ultrasound, Mr. Moretti.”

  Tony grumbles, “Great, more tests.” He looks back at me. “Thank you for coming to see us.”

  “Anytime.” I kiss his cheek again, then walk over to Martina, who’s now standing at the end of the bed.

  Wrapping my arms around her, I give her a hug.

  When I start to pull away, she tightens her hold on me and whispers in my ear, “Watch over Antonio for me.”

  I nod my head, then hug her tighter.

  “I’ll come visit again soon. You have my number. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will, cara.” She kisses my cheek, then lets me go.

  I take one more glance at them over my shoulder, giving them a wave before I leave the room. I wonder how hard it will be to keep my promise to Martina.

  Chapter 2

  ARE YOU . . . ARE YOU BEING NICE TO ME?

  LIBBY

  I stick my head into Palo’s office and smile when his eyes meet mine. I watch his full lips tip up into a grin. Palo is a gorgeous Puerto Rican man with dark hair, caramel-colored skin, and brown eyes that look almost golden in the bright lights of the salon. He’s one of the nicest men I’ve ever met—and beyond talented. He’s been featured in tons of fashion magazines and newspapers for his work as a stylist. As young as he is—only thirty-three—he’s made a name for himself with not only the who’s who of Manhattan but with movie and Broadway stars alike. People book months in advance to have his magical hands in their hair.

  “You off, love?” He swivels his chair around so he’s closer to me.

  “Yep. My last client just left,” I tell him as I slip on my coat over a black button-up shirt with a frilly neckline and long, flowing sleeves that I wore over black skinny jeans and black pointy-toed booties with a slim three-inch heel.

  “How’s your sister’s boyfriend doing?”

  My fingers pause on the buttons of my coat. Two nights ago when I went out with Mackenzie and Fawn for the art show, Fawn’s boyfriend, Levi—a police detective—was shot. Thankfully he’s okay, but it was still very unnerving to see my sister worried out of her mind that she might lose the love of her life. I also learned earlier that evening the secret Mackenzie had been keeping from not only me but from everyone. She’s been secretly seeing Levi’s partner, Wesley. Mackenzie told us that they met at a bar just before Thanksgiving, when her actual date stood her up. They hooked up that night and then again a few days later; both times she made some assumptions about him and took off, thinking she’d never see him again. Then he showed up on Thanksgiving, having no idea that his partner’s girlfriend was Mackenzie’s sister. I guess after that, like they say, the rest is history. Now my family knows about them. Mom is, of course, over the moon that not only one but two of her daughters are actually dating living, breathing men who have the potential to put rings on their fingers and give her grandbabies to dote on.

  “Hey.”

  I feel a hand on my arm, and I snap myself back into the present and blink at Palo.

  “Sorry. Yes, he’s okay. He’s actually doing great,” I murmur.

  His head tips to the side, and his eyes scan my face as I finish up the buttons on my coat.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just a little tired.” Actually, I’m not really tired—even though I should be. All day I’ve felt as if I drank too much coffee; my whole body is wired with adrenaline and anxiety. Tonight I start helping out at Tony’s Pizzeria—much to the dismay of Antonio, who wasn’t very happy when I called to tell him I would be in this evening. Still, he didn’t tell me not to come, which goes to show how badly he needs the help right now.

  “You need to relax more,” Palo chides gently.

  I grab my bag from the drawer, then lean over to kiss his scruffy jaw.

  “My next full day off, I’m not moving from the couch.” This is not a lie. Whenever I have an entire day off, I spend it in sweats, on the couch, watching whatever scary movies I can find and eating nothing but junk food.

  “Good. And I expect you out for drinks soon. I also have someone I want you to meet.”

  Oh lord.

  “Palo . . . ,” I sigh.

  “It will be casual. Promise.” He smiles, trying to cover his lie.

  With Palo, nothing is ever casual. He’s been trying forever to find a man for me.

  “You are not setting me up again.”

  “Why not?” he asks, sounding offended.

  I wonder if I sounded just like him when I tried to set up Fawn with someone and she told me no.

  “Because—”

  “Because is not an answer, love.”

  “It is!” I insist. “It’s my answer. That’s because the last time you set me up, the guy left me with a hundred-dollar tab at the bar. Or because the last time you set me up, the guy was old enough to be my father. Or because . . .”

  “I get the point.” He shakes his head and grabs my hand, his lips tipping up into an amused grin for a moment before his expression turns serious. “You’re a beautiful woman, Libby. You’re young. You should be dating.”

  I agree. I should be dating, but every single time I’ve gone out with a man in this city, it’s ended badly. The men I’ve dated either expect me to be really stupid or really easy, and I’m neither of those things. I might not know what I want to do with the rest of my life, but I do know that I want to be successful. I want to be more than just a pretty object on the arm of a man, and I don’t want to have casual sex with random men until I find The One. I want to share my body with someone I care about, and who cares about me. I simply have yet to find a guy who meets my criteria.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him, needing this conversation t
o end.

  “You’re off tomorrow,” he reminds me.

  I roll my eyes. I totally forgot. Tomorrow is my day off.

  “Right. I forgot, since tomorrow I’ll spend most of the day running dresses all over the city.”

  He knows all about my side business. Two years ago, I was doing a home visit for one of my very wealthy clients who was attending a charity ball later that evening. She showed me all her designer gowns and dresses—she only ever wore them once. All I could think was that it was such a waste. No way should Michael Kors, Vera Wang, Tom Ford, or Phillip Lim be forgotten in someone’s closet. That’s when I came up with my business idea. I talked to her and a few of my other clients. Surprisingly, it didn’t take me much time to convince them to go along. Once I got them to agree, I got pictures of their dresses and accessories that they wouldn’t mind lending out. That’s how I started Designer Closet. I rent out items from other people’s closets. Clients will tell me what they’re looking for, and I’ll find it. They pay a set price; then they return the item or items to me when they’re done with them. I have the items cleaned before I return them to their owners. I haven’t made millions from the business, but I have made a decent amount of money. Enough that I’ll be able to put a sizable down payment on a condo in the city.

  “Make sure you also spend some time resting.”

  “I will. I’ll see you the day after.” I kiss Palo’s cheek once more before I leave him in the office. Walking through the salon, I smile at the other stylists, but I don’t stop to talk since they all have clients.

  “See ya, Libby,” calls Max, our receptionist. He’s prettier than most women I know. I turn to find him leaning against the receptionist desk with a smile on his face. His full lips are glossy, and his eyes are lined with dark pencil, making them stand out against his pale complexion.

  “See you, Max. Have a good night.” I smile back, then turn and open the door.

  As I step outside into the cold, I shiver. I stop and pull my hat and gloves from my purse, putting on both before heading down the block. As much as I want to take a cab across town, I don’t. Right now, traffic is ridiculous; everyone is trying to get home. Going to the subway station on the corner, I take the stairs down to the packed platform. Two trains pass before I’m finally able to get on one. By the time I make it to my side of town, it’s five thirty—thirty minutes later than I told Antonio I would be at Tony’s. I don’t go home to change since I don’t have time; I just head right to the shop. I step inside Tony’s and pull in a lungful of warm air. It smells like pizza dough and comfort. Peggy is at the front counter taking orders, and an overwhelmed-looking Hector and Marco are making pizzas. I hurry through the crowd of people waiting in line to place their orders and go to the office. I don’t knock. I walk in, then stop in my tracks when I see Antonio’s shirtless, muscular back. My stomach twists and dips at the sight before he pulls a plain navy-blue T-shirt down over his head.

  “Uh . . . hey.” I clear my throat and avoid his eyes as I tuck away my purse in the corner of the room, then take off my coat and put it over my bag.

  “You can’t wear that shirt out there,” he says.

  Since I’m the only person in the room, I know he’s talking to me. I turn to look at him.

  “Here.” He holds out a T-shirt the same color as his, with TONY’S written in yellow on the front. “You’re not going to argue with me?” He raises a brow, seeming surprised.

  “This shirt cost close to two hundred dollars,” I say as an answer, watching his jaw clench.

  “Right. See you out front.” He leaves without looking at me again. Watching the door close, I shake my head. I don’t know what the hell his problem is, but I do know that he needs to get over it.

  Changing into the T-shirt he gave me, I tie a knot in the waist at the side since it’s too long to leave loose or tuck in. Once I’m ready, I leave the office and head through the half door that cuts off the back of the shop from the front.

  “Where do you want me?” I ask Antonio.

  He’s kneading large balls of pizza dough on a flat stainless-steel surface that’s covered with flour.

  “What do you know how to do?” he asks without even glancing at me.

  “Everything,” I say.

  His doubt-filled eyes move to me. He scans me from head to toe, and I fight the urge to fidget. I’m not lying. When I turned sixteen, I wanted money to buy all the makeup and clothes my mom wouldn’t buy for me, so I got a job at a pizza shop down the street from my parents’ house on Long Island. I worked there until I graduated from high school. I loved that job, and I was so good at it that the owners offered me a full-time manager’s slot if I decided to stay local for college.

  “All right, you can help me make pies,” Antonio finally says.

  I nod, go to the sink and wash my hands, then stand next to him. We all work in sync, and I’m side by side with Antonio. He presses out the balls of dough into round crusts with his hands, I take them from him and add the toppings, and Hector and Marco put the pizzas in the stone oven and then in boxes when they’re done. At about eight o’clock, the line inside dies down, and the phone stops ringing every five minutes with people placing orders. I’m finally able to breathe a bit.

  “I don’t know how you’re wearing those shoes right now,” Peggy states as I pass Hector another pizza to put in the oven.

  Turning to face her, I smile and lift the three-inch heel of my shoe off the ground to inspect it.

  “I’ve been walking in heels since I was four, when I convinced my mom to buy me a pair of the plastic ones from the grocery store,” I tell her with what I know is a nostalgic smile on my face. “I wore them everywhere. When I finally wore them out, I made my mom crazy by begging her every day to buy me a real pair. She didn’t give in until I was thirteen, but once the seal was broken, I never wore regular shoes again.”

  “Sheesh,” Peggy mutters. “I’m forty-two, and I’ve only worn heels twice in my life.” She holds up two fingers. “Once when I got married to Hector”—she lifts her chin Hector’s way—“and when our daughter was baptized. My feet still hurt remembering what it felt like wearing those darn shoes around.”

  Hector is Mexican American and is still handsome at forty-three. He’s short, with black hair that’s started to gray at his temples and a black goatee that I bet he dyes to keep it from going gray like his hair. He’s sweet, and he and Peggy make a cute couple. She has dark reddish-brown hair, pale skin, and a petite figure. I bet their daughter is beautiful. I do know that she’s smart—she just started high school this year at a private school in the Bronx, which is why Peggy started working here part-time. Their daughter got a full ride, but she still needs money for extracurricular activities, which at a private school are not cheap.

  “I guess I’m just used to them.” I shrug.

  “You really shouldn’t be wearing heels back here in the kitchen,” Antonio says, breaking into our conversation. When I turn to look at him, I notice a frown on his face. “They are a health hazard,” he states.

  I grit my teeth.

  “I like the heels,” Marco says, a cheeky smile on his handsome face. “I like them a lot.” He winks, and I roll my eyes. He flirts with every woman who comes into the shop.

  “Marco . . . ,” Antonio growls.

  Marco shrugs his broad shoulders. Marco’s half Italian, half African American. He’s close to forty but looks around thirty-five. He’s a little taller than I am in heels, with dark hair, greenish-brown eyes, and a killer smile that gets him tons of attention from the women who come in. He’s also very married to a woman named Lola who is okay with her husband flirting because she knows he will never step out on her—if he ever did stray, her three older brothers would kill him.

  “I personally don’t care what kind of shoes you wear, chiquita,” Hector breaks in, patting my shoulder. “You’re fast, you didn’t crack under pressure, and every order was made correctly. In my opinion, you can wear whatever kind o
f shoes you want.”

  “You kicked ass tonight, girl. Tony and Martina would be proud,” Marco says.

  I let their words settle deep inside me. Hector and Marco have both worked here since before I started coming here, years ago. Tony has trusted them with the shop more than once, so it makes me feel good that they think I’ve done a good job tonight.

  “Thanks, guys,” I say softly.

  “You wanna put toppings on these pies, Princess, or do you want to continue chatting?” Antonio asks.

  I turn back to the counter behind me and find that I’m behind by three pies. I don’t answer him; I just get back to work. I wonder if I should ask my sisters’ boyfriends if they would investigate me if Antonio suddenly turned up missing. Seriously. One day, I might just kill him.

  “I can finish that up for you,” Antonio says three hours later.

  I lift my eyes from the table I’m wiping down to look at him.

  “I got it.” I go back to wiping and yawn; the adrenaline I felt earlier today is long gone, and exhaustion has firmly taken its place.

  “You’re tired. Go rest in the office until I finish up; then I’ll walk you home,” he says as he walks across the now-closed shop toward me. Marco and Hector both left about an hour ago because they will both be coming back around eleven in the morning to open up and get things ready for lunch. Peggy left when her husband did, after cleaning up the kitchen and putting things away. I decided to stay since I can sleep in tomorrow morning before I have to start running dresses around the city.

  “I’m almost done, and I don’t need you to walk me home.” I move to another table, wipe down the chairs and the top of the table, and straighten the shakers and the napkin holder.

  “And I can finish up,” he tells me, trying to take the rag from my grasp. I pull it from his hold with a hard tug.

  “Yeah, and so can I.” I glare at him before moving around him to another table.

  “I’m trying to be nice to you.”

  “Nice? You’re never nice to me. Just so you know, if you are trying to be nice, you could do it by just saying thank you.”