Page 175 of Coach
Mike choked on his drink.
“What?” Sisi turned toward him.
“You’re going to die when you see his name in Mateo’s phone,” Mike sputtered.
Sisi’s hand was an adder, snapping out faster than my eye could see. Before I knew what was happening, she was staring at my screen, tears leaking out of her eyes.
“Flannel Daddy? Seriously? And you’re denying—”
“I didn’t name him that!” I protested loud enough to turn heads at nearby tables. I mouthed an apology as I sank into my chair. “Mike did that. I just . . . haven’t changed it.”
Sisi set the phone down and wiped her eyes with her napkin.
I slapped a hand over my phone, scooting away from her as quickly as I could without scratching the screen. “Okay, okay! I’ll text him back!”
My fingers hovered over the screen, then I typed:
Me:Thanks. I’m at brunch with friends.
Then I backspaced until the screen was blank. I didn’t want to sound like an uppity queen. So I typed:
Me:Thanks. I can’t wait tosee it.
I deleted that, too. I sounded eager. I shouldn’t sound eager.
Mike sighed and slid my phone out of reach. “You are crafting a reply as if it’s a marriage proposal.”
“Because he’s hot and intimidating and super serious and probably doesn’t even own a TV,” I hissed.
Elliot leaned in. “And that’s . . . bad?”
“It’s terrifying!”
Mike shook his head and grinned. “Just say thanks and ask what time.”
“Like a human adult,” Sisi added, not looking up. “Not a Regency-era maiden writing a letter to her secret lover.”
Damn it. They were right. I was being an idiot. This was a furniture delivery, not family planning. I typed:
Me:That’s great. I should be home in an hour. Does that work?
The others stared at me as if I was a small animal who might dart back into the woods at any minute. And fuck if I didn’t feel that way, too.
“There,” I said, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “Done. Crisis averted.”
“Can’t wait to see how you handle your woodworker,” Mike said, grinning. “Please tell me you’regoing to flirt this time.”
“No one’s handling anything,” I muttered.
“Except the massive piece of wood he’s packing . . . I mean . . . hauling . . . or carrying. How does one say such a thing about his wood?” Sisi clinked her glass against mine. “Whatever, at least fall into his arms. Make all this count.”
I groaned, downed my freshly refilled mimosa, and tried not to picture a stoic man with massive arms wearing tight jeans packing huge wood . . . carrying wood . . . damn it . . . carrying my sideboard.
Chapter 8
Shane
My truck groaned to a halt like it resented being made useful, and honestly, I kind of got it. It was Saturday in Atlanta, hot and humid as hell, and I’d already sweated through my second shirt. To be somewhat professional, I ditched it for an old tank top I only wore when I didn’t care what people thought—which was most days.
