Page 78 of Coach
Mateo was smiling at me across the table like he knew what he’d done.
The traitorous bastard leaned forward on his elbows and grinned. “Good?”
I nodded.
I couldn’t speak.
Mostly because I wasn’t sure if the sound I’d make would be words or a literal moan.
Good didn’t begin to cover it.
I was pretty sure I’d just experienced a pasta-induced religious awakening—and my pants were seconds away from becoming anSVU crime scene.
“Where did you learn to cook like this? It’s incredible.”
Mateo beamed, then ducked his head as he twirled pasta onto his fork. “My Nonna was the best. I mean it, the absolute best. And that’s saying a lot in a country where everyone cooks like an Iron Chef on crack . . . or mozzarella. Definitely mozzarella.”
“Were you close? You and your Nonna?”
And somehow, just like that, over pasta and mid-priced wine, Mateo and I settled into a comfortable rhythm, talking and, most importantly, eating until my waist ached against my jeans. Forgotten were all my fears, my insecurities, my worries that he wouldn’t find me interesting or smart or anything he found attractive. Somehow, we became two guys enjoying each other’s company and not wanting the day to end.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt anything like it.
Or the last time I smiled so easily.
Chapter 25
Mateo
We finished dinner slowly, as though neither of us wanted to admit it was over. I stood, collected the plates, and waved off Shane’s attempt to help like he’d just suggested burning the house down. He grumbled something under his breath, but I saw the way his eyes lingered on the pasta bowl as if mourning the last bite—and I swear I caught him checking out my ass when I turned toward the kitchen. A wry smile crept across my face, and I rinsed our plates and set them in the dishwasher.
The evening had gone better than I could’ve hoped.
Given Shane’s inability to string three words together, and his occasional habit of grunting in reply to an open-ended question, the bar had been set lower than for any date I’d ever been on.
But the night had been a success so far, and not just because of the food—though, yeah, I’ll behonest, I crushed that pasta. It was the energy between us. Shane had relaxed. He’d stopped gripping the edge of the table like it might sprout wings and fly off. Even his shoulders had eased, his posture softening, and his face—God, his face—opened in a way I hadn’t seen before.
“C’mon,” I said, nudging him with a smirk. “Let me show you how good that sideboard looks doing its job.”
I led him into the den, proud as hell of the way his eyes swept over the space like it meant something. He’d been here before, sure, but only briefly. Now, though? Now he was seeing it the way I wanted him to.
Wood-paneled walls, warm lamp light, shelves crammed with books and mementos, the rug from Azerbaijan still soft underfoot. And there, beneath the television, his masterpiece of a sideboard, with its dark wood, carved edges, and powerful lines.
“Looks good there,” I said, hands in my pockets like a dope.
He stared at it like it might wink at him—or bite him. “It was always meant to be yours.”
I turned my head so he wouldn’t see my face go stupid.
We crashed onto the couch, a little too close to be casual. My thigh pressed against his, and neitherof us moved. Sitting there beside him, I caught myself watching his profile as he focused on the TV. I wasn’t glaring in a creepy way—I hoped. I was just . . . studying him.
He had one of those faces that you didn’t realize was beautiful until you looked too long. Imperfections made him flawless. A faint scar just above his eyebrow, the shadow of scruff he hadn’t bothered shaving, a bump in the bridge of his nose that told a story I’d yet to hear. Oh, and the man-scar on his chin that marred ninety percent of American males, likely born of a childhood incident involving a piano stool or table corner. My quick catalogue was filled with all those tiny things most would miss. Most people would be too intimidated by the sheer brooding bruteness of Shane to understand him—or the patchwork of tales written across his face.
Suddenly, I couldn’t stop seeing them.
His jaw was tight, like he was chewing over thoughts he’d never say out loud. His fingers drummed against the wine glass, then stilled, one finger repeating the rhythm, as though it missed the memo to stop moving. When he did smile—even barely—it hit me like a freight train.
Was this what it felt like when the slow burn started to catch fire?
