Page 178 of Coach
I failed.
Ice clung to my balls with bitter, angry, frigid fingers.
My hand shot south so fast, I forgot Mateo was watching. He’d somehow managed to catch the glass I’d flung and was gaping as my hand disappeared down the front of my pants, reappearing a moment later with the offending ice—now smaller—squishing for freedom between two fingers. It fell to the ground before I could lift it in victory.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
“So, drink often?” Mateo smirked.
I exhaled through my nose and resisted the urge to curse out loud. When I glanced back up, Mateo was staring at my stomach, which was now as exposed as if I’d ripped my shirt off like a stripper readying to mount his pole.
His mouth was parted, eyes fixed like he couldn’t decide whether to hand me a towel or throw himself into traffic.
I cleared my throat.
His gaze jerked upward, eyes widening, ears going red.
“Sorry,” he blurted. “That was—sorry, that looked cold.”
“It was . . . still is,” I said flatly, trying not to react to the way his voice cracked.
I reached down, gripped my tank top in both hands, and wrung it out like a dish towel. Only after it hung limply again did I realize two things: first, I’d wrinkled it in ways that might never be repaired; and second, Mateo’s eyes had snapped to my abs the moment I’d lifted my shirt. His expression had morphed into that of a man who was dying of thirst, and he’d just seen his first hint of an oasis.
Fine, I had great abs. It was genetics. I think I wasborn with them.
Still, guys lost their shit over them, and, in this case, a very sexy Italian was in the process of shitting . . . losing . . . whatever . . . right in front of me.
This is just a delivery, I reminded myself, clearing my throat. “Let’s get this inside,” I said while reaching up and tugging the blanket off the piece.
The wood caught the sunlight. It was deep brown and smooth, like it had just been cut from the tree and polished by time. Mateo stepped up beside me, his eyes flicking to the sideboard—and then, not-so-subtly, back to my chest.
He was trying to be slick about it.
But he was not slick.
We unwrapped the last of the protective foam, then I motioned toward the legs.
“I’ll take the back,” I said. “You steer.”
He nodded and moved to the front, fingers brushing the edge like it was a museum piece. His hands looked smaller than mine, but sure. Steady. “We’re going in and to the right. The den is just inside the entrance.”
We lifted it in one smooth motion.
He grunted from the weight, and I had to fight the urge to stare. His shirt rode up just a little when he bent to angle through the doorway, revealing bare skin and a narrow waist. His T-shirt was looseenough to not ride up his arms too far, but I did catch a bit of bicep bulge as we stepped over the threshold. He wasn’t built like me. Few dudes were. He was leaner and lighter, but strong in that wiry, surprising way.
We turned sideways through the front door and moved past a hallway like a two-man moving crew who couldn’t stop thinking about what the other one looked like shirtless.
I tried not to think about it.
I tried not to notice the way Mateo looked when he straightened up after setting the piece down, breathing a little harder, his cheeks flushed and gaze flicking—again—toward my stomach.
And I wondered.
Just for a second.
Was he looking at me the way I’d been looking at him?
