Page 134 of Coach
Every time he showed up to a game—gruff and quietbut there, watching—I felt that now-familiar flutter in my chest.
We weren’t moving fast.
But we were moving.
Together.
Chapter 43
Shane
My house smelled like pine, coffee, and whatever Mateo had just spritzed on himself in the bathroom, something citrusy and warm—and dangerous, because every time he walked past me, I forgot what I was doing.
The last few months had crept up on me, a ninja—or pack of them, whatever you called a group of ninjas—creeping around my house and heart and, damn it, whole life. They’d infiltrated my last defenses, lowered my walls, and thrown me, head-first, into the arms of my Italian stallion.
One minute, I was delivering a sideboard to a too-handsome basketball coach with an accent that fried my brain. Next thing I knew, his shoes lay by my door, his toothbrush was in my bathroom—in the same cup as mine—and my fridge contained actual vegetables. I’d even built a wine rack covered in carved vines and grapes that now held court on thefar wall of my kitchen. It took Mateo no time to fill it, giving the room an even deeper old-world vibe.
The funny thing was I still wasn’t sure how any of that happened.
And now?
Hell, if a day went by without a message from Mateo—or hearing him ramble about his kids or the latest team stats—I felt . . . twitchy . . . like the house was too quiet again.
And the scariest part was how much I liked having him there, in my house, filling my personal space with his smile and twinkling eyes and . . .
I wanted him with me . . . always with me.
The realization was a Mack truck to my chest.
I’d never wanted—or needed—anyone. At least, I hadn’t since I was old enough to cook for myself and sneak out the back door of my parents’ house. I was good alone, on my own, with no one to mess up my mojo or interrupt a working session or bother me with a stream of mindless errands or tasks.
Until Mateo.
How could one man change everything? How was that even possible?
I wanted to see him all the time, to feel him near me, to know he was sitting beside me even when our shoulders or legs or toes weren’t touching (which was rare, because some part of us wasalwaystouching).
I wanted to hear him singing off-key in my kitchen while making espresso, wanted to see his Chia Pet hair sticking up in every direction in the mornings, because the man fought pillowcases in his sleep.
Hell, I caught myself grinning the day before when I found one of his socks—just one—tucked inside my shop rag bin. How it got there, I had no idea, but the sight of it had me laughing like an idiot.
Mateo filled up space I hadn’t even known was empty.
But before he showed up, I’d only filled that space with sawdust and shop noise.
With routine.
With the quiet of being alone.
Now? The quiet wasn’t empty anymore.
Or quiet.
Or much personal space, really.
It belonged to both of us—all of it—even the personal space. We hadn’t labeled ourselves or made any grand public declarations, but we both knew. We were together. We were a couple. At least, we were dating, and neither of us wanted to see anyone else until we figured out what the hell we were becoming, what we were growing into.
And that scared the shit out of me . . . almost as much as how Mateo fit in the crook between my chinand chest.
