Page 231 of Coach
Mateo’s house was quiet when we stepped inside. It was the kind of quiet that felt like lived-in comfort, not emptiness. The den was just as I remembered it—wood-paneled warmth, antique rug, the sideboard I’d delivered standing proud against one wall beneath a flat-screen television.
The hallway off the main entrance opened into a small kitchen and dining area. Both were bathed in warm tones and cluttered just enough to feel real. Copper pans hung from a rack above an island, and glass-cased shelves were crammed with cookbooks, trinkets from his travels, and what looked like a miniature bust of Julius Caesar wearing a chef’s hat.
Mateo tossed his keys in a bowl by the door andshrugged off his jacket, already moving with purpose. “All right, I’m starving,” he said, ruffling his hair as he headed for the fridge. “You’re lucky I didn’t eat your leg on the drive over. I thought about it a time or two.”
My brain tripped.
Did he just—
What kind of Hannibal Lecter flirting was that? It was flirting, wasn’t it?
He was already pulling out garlic, butter, pasta, and a handful of fresh herbs like this was a normal Tuesday. He didn’t seem to notice he’d broken my brain with those words.
“You ever hadcacio e pepe?” he asked, glancing at me with a grin.
I cleared my throat. “Can’t say I’ve ever had to defend my limbs from an Italian coach . . . and no, I’ve never had anyone’s pepe, much less Cacio’s, whoever he is.”
Mateo laughed, and every shadow that had ever lurked in his home fled.
“Then tonight’s your lucky night.”
He grabbed a skillet, twirled it, and set it on the burner like he was crowning the new king. “All right, so here’s what’s about to happen:cacio e pepe, Roman-style. First, butter—salted, because we’re not animals—goes in the pan. You wait until it meltslike it’s whispering secrets, then add freshly cracked pepper—not that pre-ground garbage. This is seduction, not war.”
By the time my eyes shifted from the pan to the counter, he was already tossing garlic cloves onto the cutting board and rolling up his sleeves. “You let the pepper bloom in the butter—like it’s falling in love—and then you add some of that gorgeous, starchy pasta water. Just a little, kind of like foreplay.”
I blinked.
Did he just sayforeplay?
He’d peeled the garlic and was slicing it, slow and deliberate, the edge of the knife glinting. “Then in goes the cheese—Pecorino Romano. It’s sharp and salty, like me when someone tries to use pre-shredded mozzarella. You stir it all together and you don’t stop stirring until it’s smooth, creamy, and practically moaning. And boom!” He looked up. “You’re welcome.”
I may have blacked out.
Because I was not prepared to be turned on by pasta.
Or the way he was talking about it.
Or how he was looking at me while doing both.
I swear the way my pants tightened and throbbed had nothing at all to do with the quirk of his mouthor flex of his bicep as he stirred.
“You good over there, woodsman?” His grin widened. “Or did I break your brain with dairy?”
“All good. Really. Great, even,” I babbled.
His eyes glinted in the fluorescent light.
I watched him bustle around the kitchen like he belonged there—because he did. He was confident, effortless, and completely at home. And somehow, with every flick of his wrist or curse in Italian under his breath when he dropped a spoon, he pulled me a little closer to something I hadn’t expected.
It wasn’t just the food. Or the flirtation.
It was the life here.
It was him.
I’d tried to resist the pull, the gravitational weight that drew me into his orbit, but everything I said or thought or did led me back to his doorstep—or, in this case, his kitchen. Watching him, the lines of him, seeing his hair bob as he moved from stove to sink to cutting board, I grew more at ease than I thought possible only a few hours before. This man—this infuriatingly charming, handsome man—didn’t seem to notice or care that I was a stone wall of emotional vacancy. He seemed to see past my bluster, past my grunts and snarls. I wasn’t sure he’d seen me yet—that would be something I’d have to show him, something I hadn’t done with anyone in a very longtime—but he was beginning to see the shape of me.
At least, that’s what I hoped.
