Page 40 of Coach
“No,” I said quickly.
“Did youwantto kiss him?” Elliot pressed with a shark’s grin.
I hesitated.
That was enough to make every juror in the room leap to conclusions.
“Oooooh,” they said in tandem, like they’d rehearsed it.
“I hate every last one of you.” Then I looked down at the sleeping dog and added, “Except you. You can stay.”
“If you’re not kissing him, you’re doing it wrong.” Mrs. H cackled. “Ya gotta use the tongue God gave you. Get in there good and root around.”
Mike had devolved into a howling hyena. “Root around!” He snorted.
Mrs. H wasn’t done. “I want smut and scandal, Mateo. Grab that boy and bend him over. Mark yourterritory. Plant that flag. Make me proud.”
“Oh my God,” I muttered, shoving stew into my mouth so I didn’t have to respond.
“Don’t encourage her,” Elliot stage-whispered before grinning. “But really, tell us about it.”
I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and let my spoon rest against the bowl’s edge. “He’s quiet . . . and kind of grumpy, but not in a jerk sort of way. I think he’s just slow to open up.”
Elliot tilted his head. “But he did open up.”
“You gotta pry ’em open, Mateo,” Mrs. H said. “Lube ’em up, use a finger, maybe two. Get ’em good and used to it before—”
“Mrs. H!” Mike squealed.
“What?” She waved a spoon. “Clearly, the boy needs lessons. He didn’t even get a damned kiss.”
Elliot saved me from whatever that was turning into. “So? Did he open up at all?”
“A little,” I admitted. “It was like pulling teeth through a screen door, but yeah. He told me about growing up in Ohio, how he builds furniture because it’s honest.”
“Damn. That’s a man with a backstory.” Mike gave a low whistle. “We need the Lifetime TV version and a giant bowl of popcorn.”
Homer sighed and thudded his tail against Elliot’s leg, clearly disappointed in all of us.
“You think he likes you?” Elliot asked, half genuine now. “Is he into you at all?”
“I’m not sure he knows how to like someone,” I said.
Mrs. H hopped up, returning a moment later with a tray of some kind of crumbly, buttery disaster pretending to be bread. She sat again, then reached across and gripped my arm with her bony fingers. “Mateo, dear, if he’s a good man, give him time. Be patient. Ask questions, but not too many. Just let him be, and he will come to you,” she said, a grandmotherly earnestness threading her words. Then, without warning, her tone returned to what we’d come to expect. “Life’s short, and sexy carpenters are rare. Take him to bed and thank me later . . . and don’t forget the lube and fingers. Those are important, especially for you back-door types.”
I buried my face in my hands as Mike and Elliot collapsed into laughter. Homer let out a low groan of despair and fled to the safety and quiet of the den.
Chapter 14
Shane
I’d successfully fended off Stevie’s nosey attempts to pry information out of me about my date. Lord, the woman tried—all day, every minute of the day. I could barely get any work done without her hovering, a snarky grin causing her lip piercing to lift as she glared down in her “older sister” crossed-armed posture. Worse than her glare were the countless questions that poured forth. I began to wonder if her inner three-year-old would ever stop asking, “Why?”
Thankfully, around eleven that morning, she straightened from where she’d been leaning against the rough wood planking of my workshop, dusted off her dustless jeans, and declared, “I have a meeting with our accountant. Don’t expect me back. This may drain me of the will to live. Only good food and better alcohol will repair my spirit. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Was it unusual for a one-hour meeting that started at noon to consume an employee’s entire afternoon?
Rather than focus on that, I thanked the gods, both old and new, for the peace and quiet that followed in her wake. Four dining room chairs stood in front of me, stripped, sanded, primed, and ready for stain. Everything was how I liked it—orderly, clean lines, nothing to do now but finish the job.
