Page 187 of Coach
And for the love of God, don’t comment on his arms.
“Nice bulge.”
Shane’s eyes bugged, and I thought I heard the hostess snort.
“Uh, your arms,” I amended. “They, uh, stick out . . . in that shirt . . . they look big, huge really, really huge.”
Shane’s lips twitched but didn’t curl upward.Was that a smile?
“You look good,” he said, as though he’d just summarizedWar and Peace.
I ran my fingers through my hair again because, shit, it’s what I did when I couldn’t stand still.
“Gentlemen, I have your table ready.”
The hostess was an angel, saving me from my lifetime of sin. I turned, sure my back couldn’t say anything more stupid than what my front just had. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught Shane looking at my butt. A jolt of icy warmth stabbed into my chest, and I resisted the urge to pooch it out.
“This way,” the hostess said, her eyes twinkling and a grin parting her ruby red lips.
Chapter 12
Shane
“Ciao!You made it,” Mateo said, all breathless brightness and soft curls over his forehead.
I nearly smiled.
Nearly.
Instead, I gave him a head bob and a quiet, “Hey.”
He looked good. Better than good, with jeans that fit like a dream, a slate blue long-sleeve rolled to his tanned elbows, and a scent I couldn’t place but wanted to track like a bloodhound.
Maybe the best part was that he was flustered. That much was clear. His eyes were a little too wide, stance a little too still, like he’d just blacked out mid-greeting and was waiting for his brain to come back online.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t charming.
Hell, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t . . . cute.
But I didn’t do cute.
I didn’tdoanything that fluttered.
Or burned in my chest.
Especially not for a man who looked at me like I was the eighth wonder of the world just for showing up.
The hostess appeared, clipboard in hand and a tired smile pasted across her face.
“Mateo, party of two?”
He nodded, his eyes flicking between her and me, and she motioned for us to follow.
Bravos was a weird hybrid—equal parts polished bistro and sports-pub fever dream. Exposed brick walls, industrial lighting, Braves jerseys framed in glass, and a mural of the 1995 World Series team in the back above the bar. Half the staff wore black shirts with crisp black aprons; the other half sported Braves caps and unapologetic sarcasm.
And the place was packed.
Couples hunched over cocktails at tall tables where stools were barely used. Friends clinked beer glasses, while some guy in a Matt Olson jersey talked way too loud about fantasy baseball trades.
