Page 180 of Coach
Mateo
Idon’t know what I expected when Shane pulled up. Maybe flannel, some sawdust, definitely a grim nod, you know—classic woodsy brooding man energy.
What I got instead was a flimsy tank top that had once been yellow or beige—I wasn’t sure which—that looked like it had survived a bear attack and lost the will to live.
And under that tank top?
There was sin.
Muscley, carved-from-oak, why-didn’t-anyone-warn-me-about-it sin.
I will die before admitting to anyone that I stared at him through the den window, hiding behind partially drawn curtains, unable to make my legs move toward the door. If Matty or Sisi—or, Heaven forbid, Mrs. H—ever found out about that, I would never live itdown.
Shane stepped out of the driver’s side like a truck commercial in slow motion—boots hitting pavement, shoulders broad enough to block the noonday sun, biceps doing things that should require permits in at least six states.
And his old tank clung to him like it knew it was lucky.
Finally realizing I couldn’t hide forever, I left the safety of my curtain-perch and stepped through my front door. I took one step down from the porch and stumbled over absolutely nothing.
I . . . just forgot how feet worked.
“Uh—you all right?” Shane asked, his Cro-Magnon brow furrowed.
Say words, Mateo. Any words.
“What? Yeah. No. Yes. Sorry, sun. In my eyes. The sun can be bright like that, you know. I—uh—hi.”
Smooth.
He nodded once. “Hi.”
Even his voice sounded like it had stubble.
I flailed my hands toward the truck. “Did you—uh—bring the piece?”
Of course he brought the piece. That was why he was here. That was like asking a pizza guy if he brought pizza.
But I couldn’t stop myself.
My incessant babbling stupidity was an unstoppableforce.
“Yeah,” he said, turning toward the bed of the truck. “Wrapped it up tight. Just need to unload.”
I nodded too fast. “Right! Yes. Good. That’s … excellent.” I blinked again, trying to reboot my brain. “You look hot.”
What?
Why did I say that?
Why was I commenting on his body temperature like a malfunctioning grandmother?
“It’s hot out.” He shrugged before swiping his forearm over his forehead.
I watched, in real time, as he tipped back the glass of water I’d handed him, drank like a man who hadn’t seen hydration in days—and tossed half of it down his front. It wasn’t an on-purpose toss, more like the glass slipped in the most perfect way possible.
I might’ve blacked out for a second.
The tank top, already hanging on by its last thread of decency, went transparent. Justmeltedagainst him, clung to the curve of his chest like it was grateful, revealed every sculpted ridge and cut and groove like Michelangelo had risen from the grave and said, “Yeah, this one’s mine.”
