Page 289 of Coach
The realization was a Mack truck to my chest.
I’d never wanted—or needed—anyone. At least, I hadn’t since I was old enough to cook for myself and sneak out the back door of my parents’ house. I was good alone, on my own, with no one to mess up my mojo or interrupt a working session or bother me with a stream of mindless errands or tasks.
Until Mateo.
How could one man change everything? How was that even possible?
I wanted to see him all the time, to feel him near me, to know he was sitting beside me even when our shoulders or legs or toes weren’t touching (which was rare, because some part of us wasalwaystouching).
I wanted to hear him singing off-key in my kitchen while making espresso, wanted to see his Chia Pet hair sticking up in every direction in the mornings, because the man fought pillowcases in his sleep.
Hell, I caught myself grinning the day before when I found one of his socks—just one—tucked inside my shop rag bin. How it got there, I had no idea, but the sight of it had me laughing like an idiot.
Mateo filled up space I hadn’t even known was empty.
But before he showed up, I’d only filled that space with sawdust and shop noise.
With routine.
With the quiet of being alone.
Now? The quiet wasn’t empty anymore.
Or quiet.
Or much personal space, really.
It belonged to both of us—all of it—even the personal space. We hadn’t labeled ourselves or made any grand public declarations, but we both knew. We were together. We were a couple. At least, we were dating, and neither of us wanted to see anyone else until we figured out what the hell we were becoming, what we were growing into.
And that scared the shit out of me . . . almost as much as how Mateo fit in the crook between my chinand chest.
I adjusted the sleeves on one of my halfway-decent button-downs. It still felt weird—dressing up—but Mateo had insisted. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he’d said, voice all bright and bossy. “You can’t go to Mrs. H’s dressed like Paul Bunyan and expect to come out alive. Trust me on this. Mrs. H makes Sisi look like a kitten.”
“That’snotencouraging.”
An espresso-laden chuckle that sounded more like a cartoon villain’s laugh than that of my unofficial boyfriend was all the response he offered.
I glanced at the clock. It was almost time to leave. The last thing we wanted was to be the final couple to arrive. The gang would be unbearable, but Mrs. H would make us wish we were celebrating on another planet. I’d only had one encounter with the woman in her lair, and Mateo claimed that had been a “tame” experience. I was terrified of what more the woman could dish out—both figuratively and literally.
I never got nervous. It wasn’t in my DNA. Others were intimidated by my size or stare or lack of banter.
Why, then, was there a low buzz just beneath my skin? Why was my mind spinning in four directions, unable to settle on one? Why had I just adjusted my collar for the sixth time? On a button-down thatdidn’t move?
The upcoming evening felt like a family reunion on steroids, one in which the aforementioned family chooses to eat the guests alive, leaving behind only scraps of flannel and gore as evidence of their heinous crime.
Mateo and I had hung out with various members of his little family, mostly in pairs or small groups, but I’d never been around the whole crew gathered under one roof. This was either going to be the best night of my life or an utter shambles that made me rethink all the life choices that led up to those moments.
“I swear,” I muttered, buttoning the last cuff, “if she serves us some Scottish roadkill stew again—”
“Relax.” Mateo came out of the bathroom, grinning, damn near glowing in a soft red sweater that clung in all the right places. “Everyone’s bringing backup food. You won’t starve.”
“Good, ’cause if dinner starts moving on the plate, I’m not responsible for what happens next. I will protect our family.”
Oh, shit. Had I just called us a family?
Mateo didn’t seem to catch it.
He laughed, grabbing a covered dish from the counter. “You’ll be fine. They love you.”
