Page 183 of Coach
Hell if I knew.
It wasn’t like I dated. Not in a let-me-open-the-door-for-you-and-hope-we-both-don’t-choke-on-small-talk kind of way. Outside of servicing my customers and dealing with Stevie, I rarely even peopled.
Leaving the house took effort.
Dealing with other humans took even more.
I was about three minutes from giving up and driving to Decatur in the towel and dripping hair when my phone caught my eye. I grabbed it and hit Stevie’s image on my phone’s favorites.
She was the only image on my favorites page, my only favorite.
She picked up on the second ring.
“Well, well,” she said, voice already thick withmischief. “If it isn’t my favorite socially stunted hermit. To what do I owe a call outside of working hours? Break something large and wooden? Better yet, yank your own wood and want to brag about it? Got a video for me? I might prefer to muff dive, but I can appreciate a good tool when I see one. We are in the business, after all.”
“No, God no.” I sighed. “I need help.”
“Are you dying?”
“No.”
“Is the shop on fire?”
“No.”
“Are you—” She gasped, loud and dramatic. “Are you consideringpeopling?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and muttered, “I have . . . a thing.”
There was a pause.
“Athing?” she repeated, practically vibrating through the phone. “Is it adate-thing? It’s a date-thing, isn’t it? Is Shane Douglas going on a date? Holy shit, the world might split open.”
“It’s just dinner. It’s not like we even know each other at all,” I muttered.
“Oh, honey.” She laughed. “That’s the point of dates, to get to know someone you don’t know well. You sound like you’re heading to your own execution. What are you wearing?”
“A towel.”
Dead silence.
“You’re calling me . . . naked . . . because you can’t pick out a shirt?”
“I’m not naked,” I growled. “There’s a towel.”
She cackled so loudly I had to hold the phone away from my ear. As she enjoyed her moment, I glanced into my closet, confirming the hopelessness of this adventure.
“Wow. The romance. The seduction. The total inability to function like a human being. I need to record this . . . for posterity, you know. Maybe for blackmail purposes, too. We’ll see.”
“I hate you.”
“No, Shane Douglas, you love me. Now answer me this, my grumpy woodsman—if this is such a burden, why’d you agree to the date? And who’s the lucky guy, anyway? You never said.”
I didn’t answer right away.
Not because I didn’t have an answer. Because the real answer made my throat go tight.
After a beat—or ten—I leaned against the doorframe and let it out.
