Page 20 of Coach
“Don’t lie to me, Mateo Ricci. I am not fooled by that sexy accent and coiffed hair,” Sisi growled. I wasn’t sure if it had been a compliment or a slap. “You’re doing that tight-lipped I’m-trying-not-to-smile-like-a-virgin-holding-his-first-dick face.”
Mike, reaching for his mimosa, yanked his hand back and smothered a laugh.
Fucking Elliot doubled over with deep, rumbling, aching howls pouring out of him.
I set my phone on the table, screen downlike it was classified and the FBI was at the next table.
Elliot sucked in a breath and arched one brow. “Ooooh. Is this the furniture guy? The one with the arms and the scowl that could make Sisi look happy?”
“I’m fucking giddy,” Sisi snarled, making Elliot double over again.
“I never said anything about his arms,” I muttered.
“You didn’t have to,” Mike said. “Your face talked about his arms for a full five minutes.”
“Ten,” Elliot corrected. “There was a gesture involved. Like this.” He mimed flexing in slow motion.
Sisi sipped her mimosa as if it was tea. “Didn’t realize sideboards came with biceps and brooding. Furniture’s really stepped up its game.”
“He was just being professional,” I said, pushing a piece of toast around my plate.
Mike grinned. “Professional with forearms that say ‘I fix things with my hands and also make a mean chili.’”
“I hate all of you.”
“You love us,” Sisi said. “Now text back or I’m doing it for you. I’ll write, ‘Thanks, Daddy, can’t wait to sit on your sideboard.’”
Mike choked on his drink.
“What?” Sisi turned toward him.
“You’re going to die when you see his name in Mateo’s phone,” Mike sputtered.
Sisi’s hand was an adder, snapping out faster than my eye could see. Before I knew what was happening, she was staring at my screen, tears leaking out of her eyes.
“Flannel Daddy? Seriously? And you’re denying—”
“I didn’t name him that!” I protested loud enough to turn heads at nearby tables. I mouthed an apology as I sank into my chair. “Mike did that. I just . . . haven’t changed it.”
Sisi set the phone down and wiped her eyes with her napkin.
I slapped a hand over my phone, scooting away from her as quickly as I could without scratching the screen. “Okay, okay! I’ll text him back!”
My fingers hovered over the screen, then I typed:
Me:Thanks. I’m at brunch with friends.
Then I backspaced until the screen was blank. I didn’t want to sound like an uppity queen. So I typed:
Me:Thanks. I can’t wait tosee it.
I deleted that, too. I sounded eager. I shouldn’t sound eager.
Mike sighed and slid my phone out of reach. “You are crafting a reply as if it’s a marriage proposal.”
“Because he’s hot and intimidating and super serious and probably doesn’t even own a TV,” I hissed.
Elliot leaned in. “And that’s . . . bad?”
