Page 242 of Coach
Hell, I could stilltastethe wine on his lips.
“Stop it,” I muttered to myself, glaring at thewood like it had betrayed me.
But I didn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.
How could I?
I was a man in his workshop, shirtless, sweating, chest humming from music and muscle memory—and still, all I could think about was a smartass basketball coach with a voice that turned my bones to syrup.
The planer groaned, catching on a knot in the wood. I adjusted, shook my head, and went back to work.
And that’s when the door kicked open.
“Jesus, Douglas. What, did the eighties call and demand their power ballads back?”
I didn’t even look up. “Don’t knock the classics.”
“I’m not knocking anything,” Stevie said, weaving through the cluttered floor like a crow in combat boots. “But if I hear Steve Perry wail about faithful hearts one more time, I’m gonna write him a stern letter.”
She took one look at me—shirtless, red-faced, and halfway into carving a dragon’s claw—and narrowed her eyes.
“What the hell?” she snarled, crossing her arms so tightly I thought she might pinch a vein or artery.
“What?”
“You’re humming . . . and glistening . . .and I could swear I heard you”—she shuddered—“singing.”
“So, a guy can be in a good mood, can’t he?”
“Shane Micheal Douglas.”
“That’s not my middle name, Zeta Jones.”
Her forefinger whipped out faster than a swordsman could draw his weapon from a scabbard. “Do not sass me, asshole. What the hell happened?”
I groaned.
She grinned.
“You got laid,” she said, not a question, a judge issuing a pronouncement.
I grinned and . . . fuck me . . . blushed.
Her jaw dropped.
“What now?” I scowled.
“You just . . . you just blushed. And you smiled. Jesus Christ. Where’s the Poison Control Center’s number. I need a hotline, stat!”
I rolled my eyes. “I had a little sex, didn’t drink gasoline.”
She glared a moment. Then her head cocked to one side. Then she uncrossed her arms and squinted her eyes.
I smiled like a toothy labrador retriever, minus the tongue lolling.
She whistled. “Well, shit. If I’d known getting you laid would make this big of a difference, I would’vehired a hooker years ago.”
“Stevie!”
