Page 204 of Coach
It was, well, a look.
“I’ve seen a lot of wood in this shop,” she said. “But this is the saddest graveyard of coasters I’ve ever laid eyes on. What are you even making? These look like the ball part of a ball-and-claw foot, but I don’t see any pieces needing feet . . . and those balls are the size of my fist. The furniture would have to be big as a house for those to work.”
I grunted and reached for another blank, but my hands were stiff. When I picked up the compass, it trembled in my fingers for half a second before I locked my grip.
She caught it.
“Oh, my God.”
“Don’t,” I warned.
“Are you—Shane Douglas—nervous?”
I didn’t answer, just tightened the clamps and measured the center again.
“You are.” Stevie let out a delighted gasp and smacked my shoulder. “You’re freaking out. You’ve got pre-date shakes.”
“It’s not a date,” I muttered, even though it absolutely was.
She walked over to the pile of discarded tops and picked one up, examining the edge like a jeweler appraising a cheap necklace. “You’ve made seven of these—wait, here’s another—and you haven’t finished one. Your hands are twitchy, you haven’t said more than ten words since I walked in, and your playlist hasn’t moved past Journey’s Greatest Hits, which means you’ve looped ‘Faithfully’ at least three times.”
“It’s a good song.”
“It’s a coping mechanism.”
I exhaled, hard, and set the chisel down. My hands curled at my sides, palms still tingling.
“Whatareyou making, anyway?”
“It’s nothing.”
She turned, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Is this about Mateo?”
I didn’t answer.
Which was enough.
“Oh, hell yes it is.” She beamed like she’d just won a prize. “Shane Douglas has a boy crush, a big, swoony, pine-scented, emotionally constipated crush.”
I stared at her. “Do you want to get banned from the shop?”
“You say that every week.”
“And yet you keep testing me.”
She grinned. “Because eventually you admit things. Like the fact that youlikethis guy . . . and that’s terrifying . . . and adorable . . . and I’m proud of you.”
“I never said—”
“You didn’t have to. I’m a witch. I know things. Besides, you’re sanding furniture like it cheated on you. You’re ruining perfectly good wood because your brain is too full of Italian cheekbones.”
I rubbed the back of my neck and looked away.
She stepped closer, her voice softening more than I thought possible. “You don’t have to be good at this, Shane. You just have to try.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“I am trying.”
