“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.”
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
Seriously?
I wonder how much time you get for committing murder if you’ve actually spent time plotting someone’s death beforehand.
“You’re right. You didn’t ask for my help,” I agree. “But I’m here because I like this place and I love your parents.” I lock eyes with his and tip my head to the side. “Why are you so miserable all the time?”
“I’m not.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
I try not to notice how his muscles flex or how his shirt gets snug against his pecs and abs when they do.
Annoyed with myself for finding him attractive when he’s such a jerk, I shake my head. “You are.”
“I’m not miserable.” He scowls.
I roll my eyes and move to another table. “Sure you’re not.” I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Even now, you’re scowling.” I look down and start cleaning another table.
“I don’t scowl,” he denies.
I look up at him and roll my eyes again when I see that he is indeed still scowling.
“Sure you don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“Whatever. This conversation is completely pointless,” I say, looking away from him. “Don’t you have something to do?”
I look up when he doesn’t leave. When my eyes meet his, the air around us seems to shift. I see something in his gaze that makes my stomach muscles clench and unclench.
I don’t know how long we stare at each other, but it feels like forever before he clears his throat and finally looks away.
“I’m gonna finish shutting everything down.”
“Right.”
I watch him go, wondering what the hell that was about. I finish cleaning the tables, then do a quick sweep of the floors. Around eleven, I walk back to the office. A few seconds later, he comes in behind me. Deciding not to bother with changing back into the shirt I wore here, I fold it neatly and put it in my purse. Then I put on my coat, hat, and gloves. When I turn around, I see he’s put on a black down jacket and a beanie. I don’t want to think he looks good wearing a beanie, but he does. It makes his already-strong cheekbones seem stronger, his eyes seem darker, and him seem overall more mysterious. Pushing those stupid thoughts away, I leave him in the office and head for the front door.
As I walk away, I hear him coming up behind me.
“Have a good night,” I murmur without looking back.
I stop when I feel his hand wrap around my wrist, between my coat sleeve and glove. A shot of what can only be described as electricity shoots through my system at his touch, charging every cell in my body. It startles me.
“I’m gonna walk you home,” he says.
I turn to look up at him. “I’m fine walking alone.” I attempt to pull away from his grasp, but his fingers only seem to tighten.
“I’m gonna walk you home,” he repeats more firmly.
I fight back a sigh of frustration. If he wasn’t such a jerk, I would think his worrying about me making it home safely was sweet. Unfortunately, he’s proved to be mostly a jerk.
“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.