Page 27 of Coach
“Sorry,” I blurted. “That was—sorry. That looked cold.”
He just nodded, stone-faced, like that kind of thing happened all the time, then flicked the offending ice cube into my lawn. Damn, if I didn’t wonder how that piece of ice had enjoyed its stay in the bush . . . well, in Shane’s bush.
“Let’s get this inside,” he said, pulling the blanket off the sideboard like I hadn’t just had a spiritual moment with my sweat glands.
Somehow, I managed to gulp back my desire and resume being a sentient adult. We grabbed the sideboard and moved together down the hall—me steering, him carrying the bulk. Everytime he turned, his wet shirt flexed with him, and I had to remind myself that staring was impolite. And dangerous to my dignity . . . and sideboard.
When we got it in place against the far wall of the den, he stepped back to give it a once-over.
“You okay with the height?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, pretending I hadn’t just been checking out his forearms as though they owed me money. “It’s perfect. Seriously, Shane. It’s . . . beautiful.”
He didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod and glanced around the room, eyes landing on the rug.
“You have a good eye,” he said. “That rug’s something.”
We chatted, me telling stories of the rug’s history in our family, and him staring down with a stern glare that either suggested murderous intent or deep thought. I was fairly certain it was the latter.
“So,” I said, after we’d stood in my den drinking two fresh, un-junked glasses of water for a few minutes. “You do this a lot?”
What a stupid thing to say, the voice in my head echoed. We weren’t at a gay bar. He was a professional delivering furniture.
God, please save me—or strike me down. I don’t care which right now.
Shane shrugged again, showing no amusement oremotion whatsoever. “Sometimes, when the client doesn’t have a truck.”
Right. Delivery.He wasn’t even thinking I was hitting on him—which I wasn’t.
“Want to grab dinner?”
Shane blanched, the first crack in his stone visage, save for the ice-meeting-balls incident, and that didn’t count because, well, who could have ice on his balls and not jump a little?
“Now?” he asked. “It’s just past noon.”
He wasn’t saying “no,” but the utter lack of warmth in his tone made me wonder if he welcomed the invitation or thought I was a complete idiot for asking. Hell, maybe the giant wasn’t even gay. I’d made that assumption based on what? My desire to lick his abs and taste his every curve.
“I didn’t mean to assume. I just wanted to say thanks for coming all this way out . . . and I guess . . . I mean, if you’re not . . . oh, shit . . . Are you? If you aren’t into guys or dates or dinner or fuck . . . please don’t be upset—”
“Yes,” he said, mercifully ending my stream of consciousness.
“Yes?”
“I’m gay. And yes to dinner.”
I remembered to breathe again.
“Okay, good . . . about being gay . . . and dinner.About both, actually. Say, seven? I need to do a few things and clean up and try to remember how to speak,” I said, barely managing to avoid verbal vomit.
He stared—no, he glared—then nodded once as though sealing a medieval truce on a battlefield. “Sure. No sushi.”
“Deal. No sushi.” I smiled and tried to keep my inner boy in check. I was about to suggest No. 246, a cozy, elegant little place in Decatur, closer to him, when he raised a palm like a patrolman.
“And nothing fancy.”
“No sushi. No black tie. Got it.” I raised my phone and waved. “I’ll text you the address once I have a place figured out. I was thinking Decatur since it’s sort of in the middle, between our places?”
He grunted something of agreement and did that one-nod thing again.
