Page 137 of Coach
The moment we crossed the threshold, the smellhit us—roast meat, some kind of baked thing that may or may not have involved root vegetables, and an unmistakable hint of whatever Scottish concoction Mrs. H was trying to kill us with.
From the den came raucous laughter.
“Sounds like they’ve started without us,” I muttered.
We barely made it past the coatrack before Sisi’s voice rang out.
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in!”
“I don’t do pussies,” Shane said, deadpanned as ever.
Sisi’s entire face froze, then everyone in earshot erupted, some doubling over.
Matty was sprawled on the couch like a cat in a sunbeam, one leg tucked under him, the other kicked out and bouncing to some inner rhythm.
Andof course, he was dressed to be seen.
A glittering gold cardigan hung off his shoulders, draped over a skin-tight black mesh shirt that left nothing to the imagination. Red velvet pants hugged his hips like a second skin, ending in a pair of pointed patent leather boots that looked ready for the runway—or a witch’s coven meeting. I wasn’t sure which. Around his neck hung a thick chain with a charm shaped like a tiny stiletto heel, and his nails were painted alternating black and red. Perhapsmost arresting, his lashes looked like they could fan a small forest fire.
Matty caught me looking and winked. “You like? I was going forgay Christmas fairy, but if you think it’s too subtle, I can add antlers.”
Sisi cackled from beside him.
And yeah, I loved these people, chaos and all.
The second Sisi’s eyes landed on Jeremiah, she gasped. Matty echoed with a gasp of his own.
Then Sisi squealed and hopped to her feet, drink splashing dangerously in her wineglass. “Mateo! Shane! You picked up a third before you’ve even made yourselves official? That’s a bold move, boys, a bold move.”
Jeremiah damn near choked. “I—what—no—I’m just—”
“Sisi! No, this is Jeremiah. He was alone! We invited him! It’s not—”
“Oh, I see,” she purred, twirling toward Jeremiah. “Found you a loner who wouldn’t be missed? That’s some classic serial killer shit. You watch a lot of TV, Mateo Ricci, far too much. I bet you lured him in with baked goods and holiday cheer, hmm?”
Jeremiah turned bright red and hid behind Shane and the dish of roasted vegetables he was carrying.
“You’re impossible.” I felt my own face heating. “Jeremiah is Shane’s delivery guy.”
“Oh, a workplace romance. I love that trope!” Sisi tittered.
Through it all, Shane remained completely unflappable, standing tall and calm with his dish in one hand, the very picture of stoic amusement.
Mrs. H bustled in from the kitchen, wooden spoon waving faster than Harry Potter’s wand. “What’s all this screeching? Oh! You boys brought a stray. Lovely. Lord knows these gatherings need more eye candy.”
She drank in a long look. “And damn-fucking-nation, that boy is fine. What I want for Christmas is his shirt on the floor, ya hear me?”
Jeremiah made a helpless noise.
Sisi had to set her glass down as her howls quickly morphed into a pee-pee dance I feared might bubble over.
Mike rose and stood behind Sisi. “Careful, Jeremiah. They’ll have you naked save for an apron before dessert.”
The room roared.
I was about to intervene, to rescue poor Jeremiah, when Omar, from his perch on the arm of the couch, finally spoke, his cool, British drawl sharp as ever.
“Well,” he said with a lazy smile, eyes flicking over Jeremiah’s shoulders and chest, “with arms like those, someone needs to mount his Everest.”
