Page 282 of Coach
And then I felt it.
There was a heavy weight against my side, one large arm sprawled across my stomach, with fingers twitching now and then, like even asleep Shane couldn’t stay still. His leg was thrown half across mine, the sheet tangled somewhere around his thigh, leaving an expanse of bare skin pressed against me.
I turned my head carefully, slowly.
And there he was.
Shane Douglas, the walking wall of stoicism and logger charm, completely wrecked in sleep.
His hair was a riot—wild curls shooting off in every direction, a cowlick sprouting atop his head like some broken tiara. His mouth hung open, the faintest snore vibrating from his chest in a sound that was kind of adorable. His brow was furrowed, like even unconscious he was fighting some invisible battle, and his cheek was smushed against the pillow in the most unflattering, uncomposed way imaginable. The other side of his face still held marks from where he’d lay pressed too firmly against the seam of the pillowcase.
He looked a mess.
He looked perfect.
And I wanted to capture that moment, to take a photo in my mind and never forget it.
I smiled, warmth spreading low in my chest, dangerous and bright.
Last night . . .
It all flooded back in a hungover blur. The club, the drive home, Shane losing his shit . . . then his pee . . . then losing it even worse on my bathroom floor. I couldn’t remember ever laughing so much or so hard, certainly not for an entire evening.
And never—not in a million years—could I have predicted Shane would’ve been the man to give methat much amusement. Stoic, stubborn, one-word Shane. Who knew he could be so . . . whatever he’d been?
But more than just the laughs and jokes and drunken silliness, something had cracked open. I’d seen it in his eyes, on his face, in the way he laughed so freely and touched me like his palm belonged against my skin.
Something had changed. I could feel it.
Watching this man—this big, broody, grumbly man—giggle like an idiot in my passenger seat, cry about peeing on my floor, melt when I stroked his hair . . . it had shown me more of him than I think he’d ever let anyone see.
And God help me, I loved it.
Because this? This washim.
It wasn’t the polished, careful Shane he showed to the world or the craftsman with perfect lines and precision joints. It wasn’t the guarded man who thought feeling too much might break him—or everyone around him.
No, this Shane—this sleepy, messy,vulnerableShane—was the one who had somehow, without warning, wrapped himself around my heart like I was his favorite piece of wood to carve. And lying there in that tangle of limbs and sheets, I realized something else, something that hit so deep it mademe hold my breath.
I wasn’t in this just for the fun anymore.
Nor for the sex.
Not even for the flirting or the thrill of the new.
I wanted more.
I wanted mornings like this.
Nights like last night.
Days when he’d let go and trust that I wouldn’t run when things got messy—literal pee-covered floors included.
I wantedhim.
And that scared the hell out of me.
Because falling for someone like Shane wasn’t going to be easy.
