Page 247 of Coach
I didn’t answer. Just turned back to the leg and kept chiseling. I was nearly done with the last of the claw foot curve and wanted to finish before surrendering to the weekend.
She sighed, and I swear I could feel her hand wave through the air behind me. “Fine, Mr. Asshole Boss. I’m clocking out . . . or I would be if you paid me hourly, which you should, considering I haven’t eaten since noon and your idea of lunch was stale pretzels someone shoved in your pantry sometime after Reagan left office.”
“Check the cabinet,” I said, not looking up. “There’s granola bars.”
“Great, we advanced to the Bush years . . . and yeah, we’re talkin’ Bush 41, not the son.”
I snorted. She was on fire.
“Okay, wow. The culinary generosity of a man with a six-pack and no sense of joy.” She stepped closer and tapped my shoulder with her taloned finger. “You’ve been here since five . . . in the morning . . . again.”
“Deadlines. I can’t feed you gourmet cabinet food if the clients don’t pay.”
“And they don’t pay if you don’t finish. Got it,” she huffed.
“Exactly!” Had she just said I was right? Maybe I should take her to a hospital, get her checked out.
“OT’s all lies.” Oh, shit. I heard a storm brewing in her voice. “You’re hiding from your hot Italian.”
My hand froze on the wood. I blinked, not daring to turn to face her.
There was a smirk in her voice. “Don’t act like you’re not thinking about him every time you stroke that wood. Hell, I bet you’ve stroked a lot of wood thinking about him lately.”
I groaned. “You’re the worst.”
She leaned against the worktable, pressing her boobs to my back in a way straight men might love. I, on the other hand, felt nothing but baby feeders smushing into my grungy shirt. As sweaty and gross as I was, she’d come to regret nuzzling her knockers against me.
“So what’s your excuse tonight? Avoiding romance for business? Gonna make out with mahogany instead of Mateo?”
Unwilling to let my shoulder blades ween any longer, I turned to face her again. “He’s coaching tonight.”
“All night?” Her eyebrows shot up.
I didn’t answer. No good came of answering.
She clapped a hand on my shoulder harder than necessary, then turned toward the door. “Try not tosand your feelings off while I’m gone, and for God’s sake, take a shower. You smell like a lumberyard had a nervous breakdown.”
She left with a two-finger salute—apparently feeling a bit European—and the faint sound of a car key fob chirping in her wake.
I sat there, staring into the now-closed door. The shop was too quiet, the tools too still, and all I could think about was the way Mateo looked when he paced the court—commanding, intense, alive.
“Damn it, Shane, you have work to do,” I groused, reaching for the stereo and willing Steve Perry and team into life. If I was going to brood, I was doing it with the dulcet tones of the greatest band ever in the background.
I didn’t have time for this.
Any of it.
And I didn’t have time to drive across town to watch high school boys play basketball.
Definitely not.
Wasn’t going to happen.
I planed a little too hard, shaving a deep gouge in the perfect leg.
“Mother fu—”
I tossed the planer down and ran a hand through my hair, spreading sawdust across my scalp in the process. Great. Just great.
