Page 44 of Coach

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I didn’t want any of it—any of them.

I—

My phone dinged.

Loud. Clear. Sharp.

The sound chimed over Steve Perry and his band of angels.

It was the sound that made most teens quiver with delight and dive across a couch to retrieve their sacred device. For me, it was the sound of pure terror.

I froze mid-stroke.

The rag dripped, staining uneven tears of brown on the wooden seat.

Fuck my life.

I turned toward my phone sitting on the nearby workbench.

There was one new text.

One notification.

My gut twisted.

There was no reason for it to be him, no logical expectation. It had been two days after our date, well outside the timeframe for a follow-up. Surely, he’d realized I was the emotional equivalent ofThe Titanicand moved on, deleted my number, forgotten my name.

It couldn’t be him texting. It just couldn’t.

But somehow I knew.

I knew it was him.

M. Ricci:Hey, Shane. It’s me, Mateo. You know, from the other night . . . and the sideboard . . . but not in that order, obviously.

I tried not to chuckle, not to be amused, not to enjoy hearing his babble on the screen.

Damn it, I tried.

But my lips curled in a most unfamiliar way, and warmth bloomed in my chest.

My phone dinged again.

M. Ricci:The sideboard looks great.

M. Ricci:

M. Ricci:You should come see it. I think it misses you. I could cook you dinner to say thank you for the fine craftmanship.

Dear God, was he flirting with me using a sideboard?

And was that the cutest thing I’d ever heard?

Who was this man, and what was he turning me into? I was not a guy who flirted. I was not a flirtee. There was no flirting in my life, damn it.

But a part of me really—and I meanreally—liked it.

So I typed.

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