Page 232 of Coach
For once in my life, I wanted to be seen.
I wanted to be more than my work, than my profession.
I wantedhimto see me, to know me, to want me as much as I craved his infectious smile.
God, I craved his smile. Just admitting that sent chills down my spine. Who did that? Especially after only a few days? Was I some freak of gay nature, some outcast of outcasts, a baby deer who couldn’t learn to walk on his wobbly legs despite being nearly thirty years old?
The chair groaned as I leaned back, watching him move with determination, whipping some kind of Italian goodness into shape.
Then he plated the pasta.
He didn’t just scoop it—he twirled it into these perfect, restaurant-worthy mounds and sprinkled more cheese on top like he was conducting a goddamn symphony. Then he added a dash of parsley, a flick of pepper, topped by a low, satisfied hum that did things to me.
He carried both plates to the table and set mine down with a shallow bow. “Mangia,” he said, like he was blessing the meal.
The smell hit me like a Mack truck.
Pepper, cheese, butter—it was so simple, but unreal. Warm steam, sharp and rich enough to make my knees buckle, drifted upward, and my stomach growled so loudly I almost apologized to the pasta for making it wait.
I picked up the fork and took my first bite.
Sweet mother of carbs.
Flavor exploded across my tongue, rich and creamy and perfectly seasoned, and I closed my eyes for a second—just to process, to grieve for every inferior noodle I’d eaten before this.
Then my pants got tight.
Real tight.
Like, someone-was-going-to-have-to-ice-me-down tight.
Mateo was smiling at me across the table like he knew what he’d done.
The traitorous bastard leaned forward on his elbows and grinned. “Good?”
I nodded.
I couldn’t speak.
Mostly because I wasn’t sure if the sound I’d make would be words or a literal moan.
Good didn’t begin to cover it.
I was pretty sure I’d just experienced a pasta-induced religious awakening—and my pants were seconds away from becoming anSVU crime scene.
“Where did you learn to cook like this? It’s incredible.”
Mateo beamed, then ducked his head as he twirled pasta onto his fork. “My Nonna was the best. I mean it, the absolute best. And that’s saying a lot in a country where everyone cooks like an Iron Chef on crack . . . or mozzarella. Definitely mozzarella.”
“Were you close? You and your Nonna?”
And somehow, just like that, over pasta and mid-priced wine, Mateo and I settled into a comfortable rhythm, talking and, most importantly, eating until my waist ached against my jeans. Forgotten were all my fears, my insecurities, my worries that he wouldn’t find me interesting or smart or anything he found attractive. Somehow, we became two guys enjoying each other’s company and not wanting the day to end.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt anything like it.
Or the last time I smiled so easily.
Chapter 25
