Page 22 of Coach
“You all right?” I asked, my voice rougher than I meant it to be.
He blinked again. Three times. Damn, he was a fast blinker.
“What? Yeah. No. Yes. Sorry. Sun. In my eyes. I—uh—hi.”
Jesus Christ.
That voice.
I’d forgotten he had an accent. I mean, his name was Mateo Ricci, which in any good mystery would be considered “a clue,” but still . . .
It was soft and rich and a little too fast, like a melody I didn’t know the lyrics to. Some of the words clipped together in a way that made me feel like I was hearing them underwater—and I still wanted to hear them again. Over and over. It wasn’t just an accent; it was the sound asmooth hand makes when it caresses tender skin.
Good God, what was I thinking?
Maybe I’d just blocked it out so I could function like a human being.
“Hi,” I managed.
Which—great. Cool. I wasdefinitelynot monosyllabic and flustered,definitelynot already sweating more than the sun warranted . . . through a tank top that was suddenly very heavy and felt skimpy beneath his gaze.
Mateo smiled, and it hit me like a shot to the chest.
“Is, uh, that the piece?” he asked, waving a hand toward the truck, his accent curling around the sentence like it had nowhere better to be.
My brain had to rewind and play it twice.
I pointed toward the bed. “Yeah. Wrapped it up tight. Just need to unload.”
“Right. Yes. Good. That’s . . . excellent.” He paused, then tilted his head, his expression crinkling a little. “You look hot.”
I choked on a laugh because that’s what reasonable adult men do when they’re called hot, isn’t it?
Mateo reached up and ran fingers through his hair, and I swear I heard background music from a Pert commercial playing in the distance. The fucking camera even shifted to slow-mo to emphasize his tanned skin and toned arms.
Was I hot? Who knew? But I was definitely getting overheated.
“I mean . . . it’s hot out here, and you are soaking through your shirt.”
Oh, shit. He meant I was literally hot, not “smokin’ hot.” My chest fell a bit at that realization . . . then I felt silly for caring if my customer thought I was hot or not.
I mirrored his fingers-through-the-hair thing, and enjoyed how his eyes drank in the motion.
Maybe . . .
“Hot day,” he said. “Don’t want you to pass out under a sofa.”
“It’s a sideboard,” I said, a little too sharp, like I was correcting a quiz.
He blinked.
I grimaced. “Sorry. That was—I’m just—do you want water? I mean, do you have water? I could use some . . . a drink. You know . . . ’cause I’m hot . . . I mean, it’s hot. The weather . . . it’s hot . . . like you said.”
By the time I got whatever the hell that was out of my mouth, Mateo was grinning, and fuck me if he didn’t have the whitest, straightest teeth ever grown in a man’s mouth. I had to remind myself not to stare lest the glare from the sun made me see spots.
“Sure,” he said. “Be right back.”
He spun around and disappeared so fast you’d think he’d just remembered he’d left something in the oven. I watched him go, then cursed under my breath and turned back to the truck.
