Page 163 of Coach
Him.
And I didn’t even know who he . . . him . . . who the guy was.
He rose, pushing up from where he’d been working, and the movement—God help me—the movement was pure sin.
First came his hands, rough and broad, calloused palms dusted with sawdust, flexing as he gripped the edge of the cabinet. Then his arms, tanned and muscular, the sleeves of a worn flannel shirt shoved up past strong, work-hardened forearms. His shoulders unfolded next, wide and solid, like he was built for carrying heavy things and not complaining about it. Flannel strained across his chest in a way that probably violated a few local ordinances.
He moved with a lazy power, like a man who knew what his body could do and didn’t feel the need to show it off.
And then—then—helifted his head.
Sandy brown hair appeared, just messy enough to make me wonder how often he ran his hands through it. His jaw was granite, dusted with the kind of stubble you only got from either deliberate rebellion or stubborn genetics. Above were high cheekbones and a crooked nose that made him look like he might have fought a bear once and only lost slightly.
Then I saw his eyes.
Gray-blue . . . or gunmetal . . . or steel . . . I couldn’t find the word. His gaze was sharp and cutting beneath dirty-blond brows. They were the kind of eyes that looked straight through you and made you wonder if you should apologize for existing . . . or offer to buy whatever he was selling and let him wreck your life.
He didn’t say anything at first, just braced one hand against the sideboard, easy and steady, like he had all the time in the world, likehewas the solid thing, not the furniture. Sunlight from the open side of the tent caught him just right, highlighting the dust motes swirling lazily around him, the curve of his throat, the broad line of his shoulders.
He looked like something out of a dream.
Or a magazine cover.
Or maybe both, if the magazine featured “Hot Guys Who Can Build You a House With Their Bare Hands and Then Sling You Over Their Shoulderand Haul You Over the Threshold.”
“See anything?” he asked, voice low and gravelly enough to leave burn marks across my skin.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
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.
