Page 188 of Coach
The hostess led us to a corner table with a view of the whole dining room—perfect for keeping an eye on everything, not that I cared.
Old habits. A clear view of the exits never hurt.
I pulled out Mateo’s chair without thinking, thendropped into my own with all the grace of a log rolling downhill.
Mateo raised a brow but didn’t comment.
When the waiter came by—a skinny guy with sleeve tattoos and way too much enthusiasm—he launched into the drink menu.
Mateo skimmed it for about two seconds before asking, “What’ve you got on tap?”
I blinked.
He wasn’t ordering wine or some foofy drink with an umbrella or cartoon animal clinging to a straw, not an artisanal cucumber cocktail or something with elderflower and a rim made of Himalayan salt.
Just . . . beer.
I felt something shift in my chest, something dangerously close to respect.
The waiter rattled off a few names.
Mateo tapped the table. “Let’s do the IPA from Three Taverns. I think I had that one last time I was here.”
“Solid.” I nodded, then addressed the waiter with my usual loquaciousness. “Same.”
As the waiter vanished into the crowd, Mateo gave me a crooked grin. “Thought about ordering something pink and fizzy just to mess with you.”
“Wouldn’t stop me from drinking it if it was good.”
He blinked as though he hadn’t expected that.
Score one for the quiet guy.
We were alone again, the hum of the room wrapping around our little corner like white noise. He leaned in, resting his forearms on the table. “So . . . Shane Douglas, you always show up looking like a body double for an action movie, or was that just for me?”
My ears went hot.
I didn’t answer right away.
Anything I said would’ve come out wrong . . . would’ve sounded like flirting.
And I didn’t do flirting . . . or cute.
And I sure as hell wasn’t sitting there wondering how the hell this man and his perfect accent had already carved out space in my chest like it belonged to him.
I glanced down at my plain white T and said the dumbest thing anyone might say on a first date.
“It was clean.”
Mateo’s belly laugh was so quick and rich I worried I might get a cavity or stomachache just listening to it. I just stared and blinked, unsure how to react to whatever he thought was so funny.
“You know, we Italians take our fashion very seriously.”
“Oh,” I said, sneaking another peek at my T-shirtand feeling very self-conscious about my life choices.
He grinned—and the restaurant brightened.
“You did well, Shane,” he said, letting me off the hook. “That shirt looks like it was made for your chest and arms. If we knew each other better, I would want to run my hands over it, feel the fabric stretched over your taut, sexy—”
