Page 174 of Coach
Sisi’s eyes locked onto our burly lineman and narrowed. I was fairly certain a World War II era air raidsiren went off in some distant city.
“Does it matter?” I asked. “As long as it gets into the bloodstream, life is better, right?”
Mike raised his glass. “To citrus-based alcoholism and the nurses who enable it.”
Sisi glared a moment, then followed the crowd and raised her glass. We all clinked and drank, laughing like we never had to return to real life. Brunch was warm and easy and golden in the way only lazy, late-Saturday-morning brunches could be—when no one rushed, the food kept coming, and the company was good enough to make your stomach hurt from laughing.
Then my phone buzzed, its vibration amplified by the wood of the table.
I ignored it at first. Brunch was sacred, even if the entire gang couldn’t attend every week. In fact, it was so sacred that Sisi once took mine and tossed it in a pitcher of sangria because I checked an email during dessert.
But then it buzzed again.
Twice in a row.
A little flutter crept into my chest—half curiosity, half dread—so I slid the phone out and tilted it under the table.
Flannel Daddy:Hey. It’s Shane. Sideboard’s done.I didn’t have anything else today, so a buddy helped me load it. I can head your way if you send me your address, save you a trip to the boonies.
As I stared at the screen, my heart did something weird and undignified.
Sisi, without looking up from her plate, asked, “Who’s texting you and making your face do that thing?”
“What thing? I’m not doing a thing. My face is fine. Steady even. No thing here.”
Mike snickered. Elliot sat back and crossed his arms.
Sisi looked up.
“Danger, Will Robinson!” echoed in my head.
“Don’t lie to me, Mateo Ricci. I am not fooled by that sexy accent and coiffed hair,” Sisi growled. I wasn’t sure if it had been a compliment or a slap. “You’re doing that tight-lipped I’m-trying-not-to-smile-like-a-virgin-holding-his-first-dick face.”
Mike, reaching for his mimosa, yanked his hand back and smothered a laugh.
Fucking Elliot doubled over with deep, rumbling, aching howls pouring out of him.
I set my phone on the table, screen downlike it was classified and the FBI was at the next table.
Elliot sucked in a breath and arched one brow. “Ooooh. Is this the furniture guy? The one with the arms and the scowl that could make Sisi look happy?”
“I’m fucking giddy,” Sisi snarled, making Elliot double over again.
“I never said anything about his arms,” I muttered.
“You didn’t have to,” Mike said. “Your face talked about his arms for a full five minutes.”
“Ten,” Elliot corrected. “There was a gesture involved. Like this.” He mimed flexing in slow motion.
Sisi sipped her mimosa as if it was tea. “Didn’t realize sideboards came with biceps and brooding. Furniture’s really stepped up its game.”
“He was just being professional,” I said, pushing a piece of toast around my plate.
Mike grinned. “Professional with forearms that say ‘I fix things with my hands and also make a mean chili.’”
“I hate all of you.”
“You love us,” Sisi said. “Now text back or I’m doing it for you. I’ll write, ‘Thanks, Daddy, can’t wait to sit on your sideboard.’”
