Page 29 of Coach
“Athing?” she repeated, practically vibrating through the phone. “Is it adate-thing? It’s a date-thing, isn’t it? Is Shane Douglas going on a date? Holy shit, the world might split open.”
“It’s just dinner. It’s not like we even know each other at all,” I muttered.
“Oh, honey.” She laughed. “That’s the point of dates, to get to know someone you don’t know well. You sound like you’re heading to your own execution. What are you wearing?”
“A towel.”
Dead silence.
“You’re calling me . . . naked . . . because you can’t pick out a shirt?”
“I’m not naked,” I growled. “There’s a towel.”
She cackled so loudly I had to hold the phone away from my ear. As she enjoyed her moment, I glanced into my closet, confirming the hopelessness of this adventure.
“Wow. The romance. The seduction. The total inability to function like a human being. I need to record this . . . for posterity, you know. Maybe for blackmail purposes, too. We’ll see.”
“I hate you.”
“No, Shane Douglas, you love me. Now answer me this, my grumpy woodsman—if this is such a burden, why’d you agree to the date? And who’s the lucky guy, anyway? You never said.”
I didn’t answer right away.
Not because I didn’t have an answer. Because the real answer made my throat go tight.
After a beat—or ten—I leaned against the doorframe and let it out.
“Because he’s . . .” I rubbed the back of my neck. “He’s fucking hot.”
“Uh-huh,” Stevie said, already way too smug. “How hot?”
I thought a moment.
“You know when we go to a Thai restaurant and order something spicy and the waitress asks, ‘Do you want American hot or Thai hot?’”
“Yeah.”
“Thai hot is a warning. It’s a whole different level of white-people problems. It’s the kind of hot that melts the chrome off a bumper.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Just roll with me here. I’m drowning.”
She snickered. “Drowning in hot sauce?”
“Thai hot sauce, only—”
“Only what?”
“He’s not Thai. He’s Italian. Like from Italy and still has the accent and smells like pepperoni and everything.”
“Yousmelledhim?”
“No!” I blew out a breath. This was useless. I was never getting dressed. “It was an expression. You know, what people say.”
“Literallyno onesays that.”
“Fuck off,” I said, holding the phone away and flicking her a bird. “He’s stupidly beautiful, like he stepped out onto the porch and the sun hit him likeitwas trying to flirt. He has these big brown eyes, ridiculous hands that move like he’s always talking even when he’s not, and his accent—Jesus—it’s likehis vowels are trying to seduce you.”
