Page 162 of Coach
I squinted. “Conversation starter?”
He flipped the tag. It read, “Nineteenth-century dental equipment.”
We both recoiled as if it had bitten us. Mike yanked his hand back so fast the seller chuckled, his ancient eyes glinting in the dying daylight.
“Nope,” I said, moving on. “Not going in my house. No, sir.”
We passed dressers with missing drawers, tables with legs that looked one stiff breeze away from collapse, and a robust collection of ceramic frogs. I was oddly drawn to the little green things, but Mike threatened to “take away my gay card” if I so muchas touched one.
Somewhere to our left, a vendor with a white mustache the size of a small cat was holding court over a battered oak armoire. “Thomas Jefferson himself owned this piece!” he bellowed to a wide-eyed older couple.
Mike leaned close and stage-whispered, “Fun fact: Thomas Jefferson also owned my grandma’s Tupperware set.”
I snorted, covering my mouth lest lemon vodka try to make a run for it.
Finally, we wandered into a section tucked toward the back of the tent—more serious-looking stuff. It was filled with real wood, heavy pieces. There were no googly-eyed ceramic frogs in sight.
Cabinets. Sideboards. Low dressers. Solid, practical furniture.
I slowed without meaning to.
Mike noticed, grinning around a mouthful of what was left of his third corn dog.
“Ooooh,” he said in a low voice. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is Coach Cardboard looking at a real piece of furniture?”
I shoved him with my elbow. “I’m just looking.”
“You’re lingering,” he singsonged. “That’s step one of falling in love. First lingering. Then commitment.”
I ignored him and drifted closer to a walnut sideboard with clean lines, heavy legs, and a wide, flat surface that looked perfect for a TV. It was beat up, sure, needed some love, but it was real wood—not likely to collapse under the weight of a mild breeze—or a seventy-inch TV and my poor life choices.
Mike sidled up beside me, his arms crossed, considering it like we were buying stock instead of furniture.
“This would hold that monstrosity you call a television,” he said, nodding. “And bonus—it won’t fold under pressure like your last relationship.”
I jabbed him in the ribs.
He grunted but grinned wider.
“It looks expensive,” I said, eyeing the worn price tag. “And it needs work.”
I reached out and ran my hand along the top of the sideboard, feeling the nicks and scratches in the wood. It had . . . character. Stories. Probably ghosts, but the good kind.
Maybe.
“At least if you buy this,” Mike added, “you can pretend you’re a real adult instead of some weird bachelor-cryptid hybrid.”
“Say bachelor-cryptid one more time and I’m telling Jessica you’re single and emotionally vulnerable.”
Mike paled and took a huge bite of his corn dog just to shut himself up.
I smirked and turned back to the sideboard . . .
Then forgot how to breathe.
Because crouched behind the sideboard—hidden until that moment—was a man.
And not just any man.
