Page 42 of Coach
Something else made me happy when I thought about it: the way he said “fries” like it was a dare.
And the way his eyes crinkled when he smirked.
And how he leaned forward across the table when he talked like the world was on pause and he hadn’t noticed yet.
I scrubbed harder.
The wood didn’t protest, didn’t laugh, didn’t lean forward. God, I loved wood.
Nope. Not goingthere.
Mateo and I had been on a grand total of one date. One dinner.
Sure, he was a charming teacher with blue-black hair, pearly white teeth, and an accent that could drop a man at fifty paces.
But I didnotdate.
I didn’t make time for people who smiled like they saw something in me I didn’t . . .
or smelled like the ocean and most aromatic flower on Earth had a baby.
I’d spent most of my life keeping things simple and quiet. It was my work, my shop, and Stevie yelling at me about eating vegetables.
That was enough.
I blinked away visions of chocolate eyes and midnight hair and returned to the chairs before me, putting on gloves again and working the stain into the wood with steady pressure, watching it soak into the grain like it belonged there, like it had always been part of the story. I smoothed it in with the edge of my palm, and nodded at the depth and texture of its new color.
It looked good. Strong and clean. My customer would be pleased with the work—because I was, and I was the hardest critic possible.
Wood was easy to finish and easy to let go. I didn’t miss it when it was gone. The empty space in my shop never lingered, never longed, never wanted for anything but another piece to fill its void.
People weren’t like that. They needed. They wished. They demanded.
I didn’tdohope. I didn’tdomaybe. I didn’t dowhat if.
Because hope had teeth.
It might look good at first—with its soft edges, bright smiles, and a voice that warmed you from the inside out, but the second you let your guard down, it cut deep and took pieces with it.
I’d learned that the hard way. It was a lesson I swore never to learn again.
So I kept things simple.
I built things that couldn’t leave—wouldn’tleave.
I worked with materials that did what they were told, that didn’t lie, didn’t change their minds, didn’t make promises they couldn’t keep.
Wood was honest. It cracked where it was weak. It showed you where to reinforce it.
People didn’t do that.
People were hard. They were confusing. They were complicated.
Like the chairs before me, my life was simple, clean, and easy. That’s how I liked it. It’s how I wanted it to stay.
But Mateo . . .
Mateo Ricci was a mess in the making.
