Page 186 of Coach
I checked in, gave the hostess a smile that said, “Yes, I’m awkward, but also adorable,” and told her I was waiting for someone. My smile widened as she tried to Cirque du Soleil her body around my accent. I was humble about most things, but I knew my accent was a lottery winner. Men, women, small animals, they all cooed when I read the phone book aloud. Personally, I thought Irish accents were the sexiest things ever, but who was I to argue if others wanted to make their bed in Italy?
I stepped away from the podium, feeling the hostess staring at my butt, and remembered why I was there in the first place: Shane.
Just the thought made my stomach do that little swoop thing again.
I found a spot near the wall and pulled out my phone, pretending to scroll while checking the entrance every seven seconds like a raccoon guarding a trash can.
I wasn’t nervous.
I was just . . . sweating professionally.
Then the door opened.
And the whole room shifted.
Shane stepped inside, and half the restaurant turned to look. Aside from the guy being Reacher massive, he was wearing jeans that weren’t helping my concentration and a white T-shirt that was deeply invested in my personal undoing. There was no need to spill water on him to see every curve and crevice. His headlights were on bright and scanning the room like tiny, pinchable lighthouses. The shirt clung to his chest like a second skin, sleeves stretched just enough over those biceps to make me contemplate religion again. Every inch of him looked solid and criminally capable. His hair was still a little damp, like he’d showered right before leaving, and something about that made me forget how elbowsworked.
I might’ve made a sound.
It was quiet, but still . . .
A littlehnnghmight’ve escaped. It was just a breath, barely audible, possibly illegal under a dozen state indecency statutes. I glanced at the hostess to catch her interest shift from my useless accent to the giant man with the rack of abs that needed basting.
Shane spotted me, and I straightened. I slid my phone into my back pocket and smoothed my hair back to hide how I had just been ogling him.
“Hey,” he said, walking over.
And there it was again.
That voice.
Rough, low, and amused—as though he knew exactly how much damage he was doing and didn’t see the point in mentioning it.
I smiled too wide. “You made it.Ciao!”
Genius-level opening, Ricci. Way to prostitute the mother tongue.
Shane’s head cocked. “I can’t even order at Olive Garden. We’d better stick to English.”
“Right, English, sure.”
God, I was a stammering idiot. Why did I sound like a chipper flight attendant greeting a passenger who just survived a crash landing?
Pull it together, Mateo. This man builds furniturelike it’s foreplay, shows up looking like a Greek god cosplaying as a contractor, and your big opener is ‘hey, you made it’?
Wow.
Incredible.
Please keep speaking. Maybe next you can tell him you like turtles and once ate paint as a kid.
I tried to recover, to stand, lean a little like I wasn’t made entirely of vibrating nerves and thirst, but my elbow bumped a planter, and I took out an expensive-looking tree.
Smooth. Very smooth.
You’re a grown-ass man. You’ve been through worse. You’ve taught high schoolers during finals week. You’ve survived gym duty. You once coached a JV game during a fire drill. You can handle one devastatingly handsome human in a snug T-shirt.
Just stop smiling like a Muppet on Red Bull.
