Page 195 of Coach
“Mrs. H!” Mike squealed.
“What?” She waved a spoon. “Clearly, the boy needs lessons. He didn’t even get a damned kiss.”
Elliot saved me from whatever that was turning into. “So? Did he open up at all?”
“A little,” I admitted. “It was like pulling teeth through a screen door, but yeah. He told me about growing up in Ohio, how he builds furniture because it’s honest.”
“Damn. That’s a man with a backstory.” Mike gave a low whistle. “We need the Lifetime TV version and a giant bowl of popcorn.”
Homer sighed and thudded his tail against Elliot’s leg, clearly disappointed in all of us.
“You think he likes you?” Elliot asked, half genuine now. “Is he into you at all?”
“I’m not sure he knows how to like someone,” I said.
Mrs. H hopped up, returning a moment later with a tray of some kind of crumbly, buttery disaster pretending to be bread. She sat again, then reached across and gripped my arm with her bony fingers. “Mateo, dear, if he’s a good man, give him time. Be patient. Ask questions, but not too many. Just let him be, and he will come to you,” she said, a grandmotherly earnestness threading her words. Then, without warning, her tone returned to what we’d come to expect. “Life’s short, and sexy carpenters are rare. Take him to bed and thank me later . . . and don’t forget the lube and fingers. Those are important, especially for you back-door types.”
I buried my face in my hands as Mike and Elliot collapsed into laughter. Homer let out a low groan of despair and fled to the safety and quiet of the den.
Chapter 14
Shane
I’d successfully fended off Stevie’s nosey attempts to pry information out of me about my date. Lord, the woman tried—all day, every minute of the day. I could barely get any work done without her hovering, a snarky grin causing her lip piercing to lift as she glared down in her “older sister” crossed-armed posture. Worse than her glare were the countless questions that poured forth. I began to wonder if her inner three-year-old would ever stop asking, “Why?”
Thankfully, around eleven that morning, she straightened from where she’d been leaning against the rough wood planking of my workshop, dusted off her dustless jeans, and declared, “I have a meeting with our accountant. Don’t expect me back. This may drain me of the will to live. Only good food and better alcohol will repair my spirit. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Was it unusual for a one-hour meeting that started at noon to consume an employee’s entire afternoon?
Rather than focus on that, I thanked the gods, both old and new, for the peace and quiet that followed in her wake. Four dining room chairs stood in front of me, stripped, sanded, primed, and ready for stain. Everything was how I liked it—orderly, clean lines, nothing to do now but finish the job.
So why the hell couldn’t I focus?
My hands twitched for something to do, so I reached for a rag and gripped it too hard, my knuckles going pale. I didn’t loosen my grip, just twisted tighter. The cloth bunched between my fingers like I was bracing for impact.
A tin of walnut stain clinked as I popped the lid off, then stirred it once, twice, slower than I needed to, but still with a little too much force. The stick scraped the bottom, a deep, gritty sound, familiar and grounding.
I dipped the rag and squeezed until the excess dripped back in—slow, brown beads falling like seconds off a clock I couldn’t read.
Moving to the first chair, I started in on the back slats with even, steady strokes. At least . . . that’s what I was supposed to be doing. Instead, my wrist felt too stiff. My shoulders were tight, and my grip on the rag made my fingers ache by the third pass.
I exhaled through my nose.
It didn’t help.
Shifting my weight, I planted my boots wider, like I was bracing to lift a beam instead of refinish a chair. My jaw had been clenched so long it hurt when I eased it open again.
I stood back and rolled my shoulders, trying to shake it off, this feeling of uncertainty, of an unknown hand gripping my shoulder, demanding attention. The knot at the base of my neck throbbed like it was keeping tempo with my thoughts—fast, uneven, off-key.
Everything about my body felt wrong, like I was forcing calm over something that wanted to pace the length of the shop.
I moved to the second chair, hoping a shift in focus would jar my brain out of whatever muck it had sunk into. Bending too low, my back tensed.
The chair creaked under the pressure of my arm. Still, I didn’t ease up.
I didn’t even notice how hard I was working until the rag slipped in my hand, wet and half folded, leaving a heavy, uneven streak across the grain.
I cursed and snapped upright, taut muscles flaring. I squared my shoulders like I was about to fight the furniture.
