Page 9 of Coach
Not a damn thing.
Speech? Gone.
Brain? Offline.
Functioning as a human being? Absolutely not.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Mike slowly, deliberately, turning his head toward me. I didn’t even have to look at him to know the face he was making, that smug, slow-spreading grin that said, “Oh, you’re screwed. You’re so, so screwed.”
I fought to get my mouth working again, scraping together the shreds of my dignity like confetti after a parade.
“Uh—yeah,” I stammered, because clearly I was a master of seduction. “I mean, the piece. The furniture piece. This thing. The, uh . . . sideboard.”
Mike made a sound next to me that might have been a snort or a dying wheeze.
“Let me know if you have questions. I’m Shane,” the Home Reno God rumbled.
Shane—because his name had to be something solid like that, not, like, a Brad or a Tanner—raised one eyebrow, his mouth twitchinglike he was used to making people lose basic motor function, then disappeared behind the damn furniture again to fix whatever the fuck might need fixing.
I stood there holding a half-eaten funnel cake and an empty cup of vodka lemon death looking like I needed emergency CPR.
Great.
Fantastic.
This wasexactlyhow I planned this evening.
Chapter 3
Mateo
The second Mike’s car rumbled out of the festival parking lot, he started in.
“So . . .” he drawled, stretching the word out like a man preparing to enjoy himself. “You bought a sideboard. Did it come with a side of Shane, too?”
“It’s not a sideboard. It is an investment in my future.” I stared straight ahead, arms folded, chewing the inside of my cheek. “And no, Mr. Grump Pants did not offer to board my side . . . or any other part of me.”
Mike snorted. “You bought furniture, real furniture. I’m proud of you. Our little boy’s growing up.”
“Stronzo,” I said without realizing I’d just called him an asshole while slipping into Italian.
“And,” he continued, ignoring me, “you bought it from a dude who made you forget your own name for a full sixty seconds.”
“I did not,” I said, indignant. “My name isMarco, damn it.”
Mike didn’t bother arguing. He just laughed—loud and wheezy—and smacked the steering wheel once for emphasis.
“Mateo Ricci, you stared at him like he was the last slice of pizza at a house party.”
“He was just . . . surprising. That is all.” I groaned and let my head fall back against the seat. When Mike glared sideways, I threw up my hands. “What? He appeared out of nowhere. The man was lurking behind his furniture. My furniture. He’s a lurker. Should that not scare us both? I bought wood from a lurker.”
“Uh-huh. I bet you want his wood, if that’s what we’re calling it.”
I huffed, yanking my seat belt tighter like I could somehow strap in my shame. “Besides, it’s not like I could’ve flirted with him; he barely said ten words, and the ones he did say sounded like they hurt coming out.”
“Like a good fart you know better than to push out too hard?”
“Mio Dio.” I covered my face with a palm.
