Page 169 of Coach
“Uh-huh,” Mike said. I could practically hear him filing this away for later blackmail. “Furniture . . .and fate.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “He’s just telling me my sideboard’s ready. He probably sent the same message to three other people.”
“Yeah? You think he’s building secret sideboards for half the county?” Mike raised an eyebrow. “Oh, wait, three other people? You think he’s into three-ways? Or would that be a four-way? You could totally get banged from every direction!”
“I hate you so damn much.” I pointed my fork at him. “I just need to go pick up the piece. That’s all. If I get murdered and turned into a rustic coffee table, you’re testifying at the trial.”
Mike grinned. “Gladly. I’ll start drafting my statement now: ‘He died as he lived, making bad decisions about men with excellent forearms.’”
I groaned and dropped my forehead onto the table.
The phone buzzed again.
A second text?
Unknown Number:No pressure. Just figured you might want to put that TV on something that doesn’t collapse if you sneeze.
Mike howled so loud Mrs. Abernathy from theEnglish department gave us a dirty look over the rim of her mystery soup and romance novel.
I didn’t dare move, just lay there, face buried in folded arms, contemplating the quirks of fate that had led me to being roasted via text message by a man who looked like he had once punched a bear in the face for looking at him wrong.
Without warning, Mike grabbed my phone and began typing.
“What the hell—?”
“Oh, shut it, Ricci. I’m just saving his number for you.”
“Great. In case I have some kind of furniture emergency?”
“One never knows.” Mike clapped me on the back, his grin wide enough to bare multiple rows of shark teeth. “You’re screwed, man. Deeply, gloriously screwed.”
“I fucking hate you,” I muttered into the table.
“You love me, and you know it,” he said, popping the last carrot stick into his mouth. “But not as much as you’re gonna love getting that sideboard. Or should I say, ‘getting sideboarded’?”
I groaned into my folded arms.
Mrs. Abernathy cackled from across the room. I swear I heard her mutter, “Sideboarded, that’s good.”
Reluctantly, I grabbed my phone and typed.
Me:Thanks for the heads-up. I don’t think I can fit it in my Jeep. I can rent a truck this weekend if you’re okay with that.
Flannel Daddy:Aw, man, I can’t let you do that. I have a truck. Come to my place and I’ll help you haul it.
“Flannel Daddy? Seriously?”
Mike giggled—like the prepubescent girl he was.
Mrs. Abernathy slammed her book shut and wiped tears from her eyes.
I blew out a breath and focused on my screen.
Me:That’s awesome. Thanks, Shane. How’s two o’clock on Saturday?
Flannel Daddy:Perfect. I’ll text my address. Thanks for the business.
Business. Right. That’s all this was.
