Page 138 of Coach
Mrs. H dropped her spoon and began snorting uncontrollably, the words “mount his Everest” sneaking out when she came up for air.
I dropped my face into my hands and groaned, “We will never live this down.”
Shane’s voice, low and dry, cut through beside me. “Speak for yourself. I’m enjoying the hell out of this, and it’s just getting started.”
And damn it—when I peeked through my fingers, the tiny smirk on his face nearly melted me on the spot.
“All right.” Mrs. H gathered herself. “Let the poor boy get into the door. You two, put your food in the kitchen and make yourselves a drink. Jeremiah, bathroom’s down that hall. Before this night’s over, you’ll either need to pee or flee. The loo is good for both.”
Shane followed Mrs. H into the kitchen, as ordered, while Sisi snaked her arm in Jeremiah’s and led him to the couch. I took up residence in the lounger across the coffee table from the couch.
Movement in the entrance to the hallway caught my eye as the third in our little trio of large, muscular men filled the opening that led to back of the house. He’d missed the grand entrance and subsequent teasing because—judging by his mildly damp hair and bewildered expression—he’d been in thebathroom the entire time.
He paused just inside the den, taking in the sight of Sisi mid-cackle, Jeremiah blushing like a human tomato, and Matty glittering like a Christmas disco ball.
Elliot’s brow ticked up half a centimeter. “I leave the room for five minutes . . .”
His voice was dry and low—classic Elliot—and somehow that made Sisi laugh harder.
“Elliot, darling!” she cried, holding up her drink in greeting. “You’ve missed the scandal! Mateo and Shane brought a third!”
Elliot’s gaze flicked to Jeremiah—who looked ready to sink through the floor—and then to where I sat dreaming of the magic of invisibility.
He gave a single slow blink and said, “Efficient.”
That was all.
I snorted into my sleeve.
Before anyone could pile more onto poor Jeremiah, the front door swung open and the cold whooshed in—followed by Dane and Patrick, both grinning and each carrying a bottle of champagne.
The room damn near exploded . . .
Because Dane was wearing an ugly sweater so heinously fantastic I almost choked. Santa, ripped and shirtless, with suspenders, tight red pants, and an ax slung over one shoulder—fireman fantasySanta.
Next to him, Patrick rocked a matching sweater featuring a half-naked Santa posing as a naughty teacher: glasses perched on the tip of his nose and a ruler in one hand about to spank an unsuspecting football player’s butt.
Dane waggled his brows as they entered. “Are we late to the debauchery?”
Patrick smirked. “Or perfectly timed?”
Sisi clapped like a deranged seal. “OMG! I want Santa’s next spanking!”
“Santa’s a myth. You’ll have to settle for me. Bend over, baby,” Dane rumbled, earning another round of raucous laughter and taunts.
Jeremiah, still wide-eyed, leaned across the coffee table and whispered to me, “Am I at the right party?”
“Oh, you definitely are.” I grinned. “Just remember to buckle up and keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.”
“The car?” His face scrunched up in the most adorable way. “It’s outside—”
“Not the actual car, silly. I meant—”
Shane, bless him, chose that exact moment to return, rumbling a soft chuckle and leaning down to murmur, “Told you this crew was something.”
“Where is Stevie?” Jeremiah asked. “At least she would take some of the heat off me.”
I shook my head. “Not a chance. She’d be more likely to pile on.”
