Page 25 of Coach
There was a throw blanket crumpled over the arm of the cracked leather couch and a single coffee mug left on the side table, as if he’d just stepped out for a second and hadn’t expected company. The rug underfoot was thick and patterned—maybe Turkish? Maybe just old. There was history in its threads, though, and I found myself staring at it longer than I should’ve.
The lighting was soft. Natural where it could be. A couple of shaded lamps instead of one harsh overhead.It was the kind of room that didn’t need to try too hard—it just made you want to sit down and stay a while.
“That’s from Azerbaijan,” Mateo said. My eyes shot up to find him watching me from the doorway, holding two glasses of water. I’d been so lost in exploring, in not looking at him, I hadn’t even seen him leave the room. “Late 1800s, so says our family lore. My Nonna used to roll it up every spring and beat the hell out of it with a broom in the alley.”
“Seriously?”
He grinned. “Yep. She said that was how you beat the bad dreams out of it.”
I huffed a small laugh. “Seems to’ve worked.”
He handed me a glass and looked down at the rug like it held some private joke only he understood. “When she passed, I asked for it. It still smells a little like cedar and mothballs in summer, but it always made a room feel right, like something of her is still here, you know?”
I didn’t know, but looking around his den, seeing the way the thing anchored the whole space—how the room felt because of it?
Yeah.
I got it.
I nodded. “It’s a good piece.”
He smiled again, softer this time. “Thanks. Thatmeans something coming from you.”
And damn it, those words did something in my chest I wasn’t ready for.
Chapter 9
Mateo
Idon’t know what I expected when Shane pulled up. Maybe flannel, some sawdust, definitely a grim nod, you know—classic woodsy brooding man energy.
What I got instead was a flimsy tank top that had once been yellow or beige—I wasn’t sure which—that looked like it had survived a bear attack and lost the will to live.
And under that tank top?
There was sin.
Muscley, carved-from-oak, why-didn’t-anyone-warn-me-about-it sin.
I will die before admitting to anyone that I stared at him through the den window, hiding behind partially drawn curtains, unable to make my legs move toward the door. If Matty or Sisi—or, Heaven forbid, Mrs. H—ever found out about that, I would never live itdown.
Shane stepped out of the driver’s side like a truck commercial in slow motion—boots hitting pavement, shoulders broad enough to block the noonday sun, biceps doing things that should require permits in at least six states.
And his old tank clung to him like it knew it was lucky.
Finally realizing I couldn’t hide forever, I left the safety of my curtain-perch and stepped through my front door. I took one step down from the porch and stumbled over absolutely nothing.
I . . . just forgot how feet worked.
“Uh—you all right?” Shane asked, his Cro-Magnon brow furrowed.
Say words, Mateo. Any words.
“What? Yeah. No. Yes. Sorry, sun. In my eyes. The sun can be bright like that, you know. I—uh—hi.”
Smooth.
He nodded once. “Hi.”
