Page 118 of Coach
“Right. Yeah. Good plan.” Real smooth, Shane, totally smooth.
I locked up the truck and climbed into his car. His scent—warm spice like cinnamon and something I couldn’t name—wrapped around me the second I buckled in. Was he trying a new cologne while baking cookies?
He shot me a grin. “Ready?”
“Sure.” My voice came out rougher than I meant.
The drive started easy enough, Mateo humming along as he pulled out of the neighborhood. He cranked the stereo up, some indie rock playlist already running.
I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t hate it but didn’t really hear it, either.
Mostly, I was too busy staring out the window and trying not to glance at him too much.
But God—he looked good tonight.
Every time he shifted gears, that flex of his forearm, the way his shirt tugged across his chest—I was losing my damn mind. When his fingers tapped the steering wheel to the beat? Forget it. All I could think about was those fingers tapping against my chest, digging into the meat of my muscle, begging me to dive deeper inside him.
I wanted to reach over, just slide my hand over his, maybe lace our fingers.
Nothing crazy, just a simple human connection, the kind only craved with my wood carvings. Wanting that, wanting to touch and be touched, was so far outside my normal orbit that I barely knew how to ask for it.
And I wanted to ask. If I took it—and I knew Mateo would let me; his reaction to me overeager sexual appetite proved that—it wouldn’t be the same. It would be a conquest or something. No, if we touched that way, I wanted him to want it, too . . . to give me permission . . . to maybe even ask for it.
Except I didn’t know if I should suggest something so intimate, so personal. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I knew how to ask for such a thing.
Was it all too much? Too soon? Too public?
What if he thought it was clingy?
What if I got sweaty palms like some idiot teenager?
Christ, I felt like I was sixteen on my first date.
Where was this going?
What did this even mean?
Why the hell had I agreed to go on an actual date with this man? He had his shit together, and I was little more than an itinerant bum making furniture out of his backyard storage hut.
Okay, I was neither itinerant nor a bum. I’d done well for myself, and my reputation proved as much.Still, sitting there beside the most delicious cup of espresso ever made, I felt wholly, entirely, completely inadequate.
Midway through the drive, Mateo huffed and reached for the stereo. “I’m tired of this. Mind if I change it?”
“Not at all,” I said, thankful for the switch from grunge to, well, anything else.
He scanned stations, flipping through static and commercials, until a familiar riff hit the speakers.
Journey.
“Don’t Stop Believin’.”
Mateo nodded to himself, then grinned, his eyes flicking toward me. “I love this. Do you know Journey?”
My heart skipped a beat.
Did I know Journey?
