Page 21 of Coach
“It’s terrifying!”
Mike shook his head and grinned. “Just say thanks and ask what time.”
“Like a human adult,” Sisi added, not looking up. “Not a Regency-era maiden writing a letter to her secret lover.”
Damn it. They were right. I was being an idiot. This was a furniture delivery, not family planning. I typed:
Me:That’s great. I should be home in an hour. Does that work?
The others stared at me as if I was a small animal who might dart back into the woods at any minute. And fuck if I didn’t feel that way, too.
“There,” I said, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “Done. Crisis averted.”
“Can’t wait to see how you handle your woodworker,” Mike said, grinning. “Please tell me you’regoing to flirt this time.”
“No one’s handling anything,” I muttered.
“Except the massive piece of wood he’s packing . . . I mean . . . hauling . . . or carrying. How does one say such a thing about his wood?” Sisi clinked her glass against mine. “Whatever, at least fall into his arms. Make all this count.”
I groaned, downed my freshly refilled mimosa, and tried not to picture a stoic man with massive arms wearing tight jeans packing huge wood . . . carrying wood . . . damn it . . . carrying my sideboard.
Chapter 8
Shane
My truck groaned to a halt like it resented being made useful, and honestly, I kind of got it. It was Saturday in Atlanta, hot and humid as hell, and I’d already sweated through my second shirt. To be somewhat professional, I ditched it for an old tank top I only wore when I didn’t care what people thought—which was most days.
Okay, maybe I didn’t care about appearingthatprofessional. I was hauling furniture, for Pete’s sake.
Besides, I didn’t figure anyone would be looking at me.
It wasn’t like this delivery meant anything. It was just a sideboard. Sure, it was a solid one with good lines, smooth grain, and clean joinery. In fact, it was one of my best pieces in a while; but still, it was just a job.
I stepped down from the cab, my boots clomping against the pavement of Mateo’s driveway, andwalked around to the back of the truck to check the straps again, not because I needed to, but because I needed to do something with my hands.
Then the front door squealed open. I made a mental note to offer to squirt some WD-40 on the hinges. I carried a can—along with a toolbox most craftsmen would envy—everywhere I went.
I released the strap in my hand, turned toward Mateo’s house, and promptly forgot how to breathe. Mateo stepped into the sunlight, squinting a little, one hand raised as if he’d just been hit with a stage light.
He was . . .
Holy shit.
He was beautiful . . . and not in the fake, polished way people tried to be when they wanted to make a great first impression. He looked real, with hair slightly messy, like he’d slept in and been too lazy to fix it. For the briefest moment, I could imagine digging my fingers into that mop of inky blackness and . . .
Shit. I had to check myself. He was a customer.
A customer wearing jeans that clung in all the right places and a T-shirt that had a PhD in “accidentally hot.”
And his eyes . . .
His eyes were this warm, syrupy brown. When they locked on me, his whole expression froze. He blinked a few times, so fast I thought his brain might be glitching. It might’ve been funny if I hadn’t been worried the guy was about to have a stroke.
And then—he stumbled.
Literally, he just . . . tripped a little.
He caught himself before losing his balance, then did that fast-blinking thing again, like he couldn’t quite compute what he was seeing. For a second, I thought maybe I had something on my face or head.
