Page 24 of Coach
The wood caught the sunlight. It was deep brown and smooth, like it had just been cut from the tree and polished by time. Mateo stepped up beside me, his eyes flicking to the sideboard—and then, not-so-subtly, back to my chest.
He was trying to be slick about it.
But he was not slick.
We unwrapped the last of the protective foam, then I motioned toward the legs.
“I’ll take the back,” I said. “You steer.”
He nodded and moved to the front, fingers brushing the edge like it was a museum piece. His hands looked smaller than mine, but sure. Steady. “We’re going in and to the right. The den is just inside the entrance.”
We lifted it in one smooth motion.
He grunted from the weight, and I had to fight the urge to stare. His shirt rode up just a little when he bent to angle through the doorway, revealing bare skin and a narrow waist. His T-shirt was looseenough to not ride up his arms too far, but I did catch a bit of bicep bulge as we stepped over the threshold. He wasn’t built like me. Few dudes were. He was leaner and lighter, but strong in that wiry, surprising way.
We turned sideways through the front door and moved past a hallway like a two-man moving crew who couldn’t stop thinking about what the other one looked like shirtless.
I tried not to think about it.
I tried not to notice the way Mateo looked when he straightened up after setting the piece down, breathing a little harder, his cheeks flushed and gaze flicking—again—toward my stomach.
And I wondered.
Just for a second.
Was he looking at me the way I’d been looking at him?
Because something was shifting—not just the air in the room, something slower, heavier, more dangerous. I felt it when we’d first met at the fair. I felt it again when he stepped out of his house. Now it surrounded us, this something I couldn’t identify. Whatever that feeling was, it made me uncomfortable in a way dead silence in an elevator packed with people begged to be filled.
Intent onnotmeeting his gaze, I let my eyes takein his home.
The den was . . . not what I expected.
I mean, I figured it would be decent. Mateo didn’t strike me as the milk-crates-for-furniture type; but still, I wasn’t ready for how put-together it was. Classy even. But not in a cold, showroom kind of way.
It had warmth and layers. It felt lived-in beneath all the polish.
The walls were painted in a soft, moody gray, like the color of the sky when rain’s about to fall. Mateo’s furniture was simple but solid, with clean lines, deep, masculine tones—a lot of dark wood and leather. Books lined the built-in shelves flanking the fireplace, and I didn’t think they were just for show. Some were dog-eared, with cracked spines or little scraps of paper sticking out like he’d meant to come back to them. Others were bound in leather. A few appeared to have seen more than a century of life.
Without thinking, I reached up and ran a finger down one’s spine, taking in the leather, the faded gilding, the soul of the tome.
“Huh,” he grunted behind me. I realized I was copping a feel on his bookcase, yanked my hand back, and turned to face him.
“Sorry.”
“What for?” He cocked his head. “I just didn’t . . .take you for a reader. That’s all.”
Now it was my turn to blink a few times.
Mateo’s face stiffened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay. I get it. Big guy like me works with his hands and all. Who would think I like books, especially old ones?”
“Still—”
“Nah, it’s all good,” I said. “Guess I’ve always loved old things. Books, furniture, houses. Hell, I even like old people, and some of them are hard to love.”
Mateo smiled at that. It was as if someone had flipped a switch in the den, turning dim comfort into the warmth of a sunlit day. Ifelthis smile in my chest and quickly looked away, searching for something—anything—to save me from staring.
