Page 181 of Coach
His chest looked like someone carved it with a chisel, solid and broad, like it had broken throughseveral shirts in its lifetime just by existing too hard.
And his abs?
They were crime scene-level definition, abs you could play scales on, abs that could do my taxes, abs that came with their own warning label for people with heart conditions. The water justdrippeddown them across his shirt—slow, casual, like it had nowhere else to be but sliding past the indents I wasn’t supposed to be staring at.
The sun caught on his arms and turned his skin golden, like God was playing favorites and forgot to be subtle about it. And I was just . . . standing there. Useless.
Useless with a capital “thirsty.”
I couldn’t evenblinkproperly. My brain was trying to decide between fight, flight, or lick, and none of those were socially acceptable, certainly not in the middle of the day in my driveway.
I was a grown-ass man.
I was composed.
I was a basketball coach with a master’s degree.
And I was short-circuiting over one very wet, very broody carpenter like a Victorian maiden at her first dance.
It was art.Hewas art.
He was thirst-trap Picasso.
And I, Mateo Ricci, was a gaping, blinking idiot.
Then—without any warning—he began hopping on one foot like some cartoon character had just smacked his toes with a giant mallet. That’s when his hand—holy mother of pearl—shot down the front of his jeans where his junk was, well, doing whatever junk did when trapped in denim.
Was he playing with himself? Was this part of his service? I was speechless . . . and like an angry Italian mother, I wasneverwithout words.
A few horny heartbeats later, his hand emerged with an ice cube clutched between two fingers. That’s when my brain decided to return to work. I’m not sure if it should have.
“Sorry,” I blurted. “That was—sorry. That looked cold.”
He just nodded, stone-faced, like that kind of thing happened all the time, then flicked the offending ice cube into my lawn. Damn, if I didn’t wonder how that piece of ice had enjoyed its stay in the bush . . . well, in Shane’s bush.
“Let’s get this inside,” he said, pulling the blanket off the sideboard like I hadn’t just had a spiritual moment with my sweat glands.
Somehow, I managed to gulp back my desire and resume being a sentient adult. We grabbed the sideboard and moved together down the hall—me steering, him carrying the bulk. Everytime he turned, his wet shirt flexed with him, and I had to remind myself that staring was impolite. And dangerous to my dignity . . . and sideboard.
When we got it in place against the far wall of the den, he stepped back to give it a once-over.
“You okay with the height?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, pretending I hadn’t just been checking out his forearms as though they owed me money. “It’s perfect. Seriously, Shane. It’s . . . beautiful.”
He didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod and glanced around the room, eyes landing on the rug.
“You have a good eye,” he said. “That rug’s something.”
We chatted, me telling stories of the rug’s history in our family, and him staring down with a stern glare that either suggested murderous intent or deep thought. I was fairly certain it was the latter.
“So,” I said, after we’d stood in my den drinking two fresh, un-junked glasses of water for a few minutes. “You do this a lot?”
What a stupid thing to say, the voice in my head echoed. We weren’t at a gay bar. He was a professional delivering furniture.
God, please save me—or strike me down. I don’t care which right now.
Shane shrugged again, showing no amusement oremotion whatsoever. “Sometimes, when the client doesn’t have a truck.”
