Page 177 of Coach
I pointed toward the bed. “Yeah. Wrapped it up tight. Just need to unload.”
“Right. Yes. Good. That’s . . . excellent.” He paused, then tilted his head, his expression crinkling a little. “You look hot.”
I choked on a laugh because that’s what reasonable adult men do when they’re called hot, isn’t it?
Mateo reached up and ran fingers through his hair, and I swear I heard background music from a Pert commercial playing in the distance. The fucking camera even shifted to slow-mo to emphasize his tanned skin and toned arms.
Was I hot? Who knew? But I was definitely getting overheated.
“I mean . . . it’s hot out here, and you are soaking through your shirt.”
Oh, shit. He meant I was literally hot, not “smokin’ hot.” My chest fell a bit at that realization . . . then I felt silly for caring if my customer thought I was hot or not.
I mirrored his fingers-through-the-hair thing, and enjoyed how his eyes drank in the motion.
Maybe . . .
“Hot day,” he said. “Don’t want you to pass out under a sofa.”
“It’s a sideboard,” I said, a little too sharp, like I was correcting a quiz.
He blinked.
I grimaced. “Sorry. That was—I’m just—do you want water? I mean, do you have water? I could use some . . . a drink. You know . . . ’cause I’m hot . . . I mean, it’s hot. The weather . . . it’s hot . . . like you said.”
By the time I got whatever the hell that was out of my mouth, Mateo was grinning, and fuck me if he didn’t have the whitest, straightest teeth ever grown in a man’s mouth. I had to remind myself not to stare lest the glare from the sun made me see spots.
“Sure,” he said. “Be right back.”
He spun around and disappeared so fast you’d think he’d just remembered he’d left something in the oven. I watched him go, then cursed under my breath and turned back to the truck.
Get it together, Shane.
I was a grown man, not a teenager with a crush.
So what if he was stupidly handsome?
Who cared if his voice made my knees feel like they’d forgotten their job?
I was here to drop off a piece of furniture, and then I was leaving.
It was simple as that. Clean. Professional.
So why the hell was I adjusting my shirt?
He took so long inside I was halfway convinced he’d bolted out the back door to escape the awkward tension when the screen creaked open again and Mateo reappeared, holding a glass of ice water in both hands like it was a peace offering to the gods.
“Sorry,” he said, handing it over. “I had to wash a glass. With tryouts keeping me at school late, the house has gotten a little out of control.”
I took the glass with a nod, careful not to let my fingers brush his. It was real glass, cold and beaded with sweat, like everything else today.
“Thanks,” I said, and lifted it to my lips.
The water was ice-cold—shockingly good. I mean, it was water, but sometimes, on a hot day,water tasted better than it should. Mateo’s water was perfection.
I drained half the glass in three gulps before my hand shifted wrong and the rest dumped straight down the front of me. I jumped and squealed—yes, I squealed — like a teenage girl who’d just been poked in the ribs. I froze as the cold hit—sharp, rude, soaking through the front of my shirt in one splash that clung to skin and fabric alike. My tank top was already thin from age. Now it was glued to my chest, outlining every inch of me like a crime scene.
The glass flew out of my hand as ice found its way into the front of my jeans. That sent me into a not-so-happy dance as I struggled to get the ice to fall down a leg rather than lodge itself into my crotch—the crotch that hadn’t seen underwear in decades.
