Page 125 of Coach
Shane
“Ithink Matt would’ve taken you home,” Mateo said the moment my car door shut.
"Jealous much?" I shrugged with a sloppy, whisky-induced grin. “Maybe I would’ve let him.”
Something flashed in Mateo’s eyes that made me giggle.
His eyes widened. “Did you just . . . giggle?”
I doubled over in my car seat, unable to control the waves of hilarity racking my body. It had been a long time since I’d gotten this drunk. Some get sleepy; others dance on tables. Give me tequila or whiskey or any other liquor, and I morph into a ball of uncontrollable glee. I had no idea why. It had always been that way.
Mateo’s laughter matched mine as he struggled to turn and face me with the steering wheel blocking his way. When I came up for air, I saw tears streaming down his face.
“My big, burly, Walker Texas Ranger man is a closet giggler. Who knew?”
That wasn’t funny. It wasn’t a joke. There was no reason for me to laugh so hard my side hurt and I felt like I might pee all over Mateo’s car, but . . .
“Oh . . . my . . . God. I need to record this,” Mateo said, snatching up his phone and fumbling with the screen. “Mike and Sisi will never believe me.”
“Don’t you dare!” I rumbled, a little too loudly and sounding like an abuser about to take a swing.
That made me giggle again.
I don’t know why.
Mateo tossed down his phone, stared a moment longer, a goofy grin making his beautiful face even more stunning than it already was. Then his hands flew across the front seat, gripped my head, and spun me toward him. Next thing I knew, our lips were locked, tongues dancing, and everything vanished but my feelings for that amazing Italian.
Except my need to pee.
That definitely did not vanish.
For some reason, kissing made it worse. Maybe it was the angle. Maybe I was bent against my prostate or lung or bladder . . . that made me snort-laugh into his mouth. Who peed out their lung?
Mateo jerked back. “My kissing you is funny?”
“No . . . No! I love your kisses,” I said betweensnorts. “I just have to pee. I think my lungs are full.”
The utter bafflement on his face sent me spiraling again. My vison blurred as I gripped my sides. I was pretty sure Mateo was still staring, probably with his perky lips parted in disbelief, but I couldn’t think. All I could do was laugh, snort, and pray to the god of body parts that my lungs—or bladder, if you prefer—didn’t choose that moment to empty. With all I’d drunk that night, I could’ve flooded his poor car.
“All right, Alan Ritchson, let’s get you home,” Mateo said in his best disapproving mom voice, though there was a heavy undertone of amusement beneath his words.
“Home?” I said, unable to wrap my mind around the simplest of words.
“Yes,” Mateo said, cranking the car to life. “You can sleep at my place. There’s no way you’re in any shape to drive.”
I sat upright. “Ooh. Yay. We haven’t slept at your place yet. Is your bed fluffy?”
Mateo chuckled. “Very.”
“And do you have cookies?”
Mateo cocked his head. “Cookies?”
“I’m hungry,” I said. “I’m always hungry. Do you think it’s because I’m so big?”
Mateo’s head fell back to the headrest as helaughed again, then blew out the biggest sigh. I swear even his sigh had an accent. It was so damn cute.
“I’ll get you cookies,” he said, surrendering to my drunken state. “Buckle up, okay?”
