Page 254 of Coach
Mateo . . . he was . . . just some guy I’d been out with a time or three. What the hell was I doing?
A tap on the window startled me.
Mateo grinned through the glass, his teeth so damn white, his smile so fucking perfect and bright and . . .
“So, drinks at your place? Or did I lose you in a game-day fugue state?”
I rolled down the window and stared at him, still half dazed.
“I don’t know what a fugue state is,” I muttered, unsure what else I should say.
His grin broadened, and I swear his eyes twinkled. Fucking Italian.
“Guess I got lost in thought. My truck knows the way home,” I muttered, offering a weak—no, pathetic—smile. “There’s a place just up the street if you’d—”
“Here is fine. As long as you have alcohol, I’m good.”
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, the thought of letting someone inside my home didn’t make me want to bolt.
It made me want to open the damn door.
Chapter 33
Mateo
Shane’s truck slowed, blinkers flashing as he turned into a gravel driveway flanked by tall trees and a mailbox that looked like it had survived a tornado or three. I followed, blinking at the unexpected detour.
He parked and . . . just sat there. I waited. Still, he didn’t move.
“Well, this is awkward,” I mumbled to myself, unhooking my seat belt and climbing out of my car.
I strode up to his truck and peered through his driver’s side window. He was staring at the wheel, his hands clutching it like a life preserver, his knuckles whiter than primer on a freshly painted wall. He was either nervous, having some sort of out-of-body experience, or regretting inviting me out. I was fairly certain it was nerves but wondered if this detour was part of some inner-serial-killer-rural-alcohol-bait plan.
Thatmade me chuckle.
Shane would never be a serial killer. He was definitely an “I’ll shoot if you come on my property” sort of guy, but he wouldn’t kidnap and—
My hand rose, fingers tapping on the glass of their own accord.
His head snapped up, eyes wide. He hesitated, then rolled down his window, yet another move that amused me on a night that seemed determined to get stranger every second.
After a brief, odd exchange, he hopped down from his truck like some cowboy dismounting from his horse and led me toward his front door.
The porch creaked beneath our feet, a pleasant, welcoming sound. Shane unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding the door for me like a gentleman—albeit a rugged, grumpy one with the emotional range of a brick wall.
The moment I stepped inside, I stilled.
It was like walking into Shane’s soul.
The place was, technically, a big cabin—but it wasn’t the kind you found in tourist brochures. It was large, with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams stained to a deep walnut sheen. A stacked stone fireplace dominated one wall, its mantle lined with mismatched carvings of animals, abstract forms, and a twisted hunk of wood that looked like a dragonmid-roar. Furniture dotted the space in a glorious, chaotic parade of styles. A Shaker-style armchair sat beside a Japanese-style coffee table. A Scandinavian-looking bench stared across the room at a rustic Appalachian hutch.
It was so varied, so eclectic; and yet, somehow, it all worked.
Every piece was handcrafted, every edge smooth, every joint tight, every detail carved like someone had poured love into it. It was Shane’s work. I would’ve bet my last cannoli on it.
He stepped past me, tossing his keys into a rough-hewn wooden bowl sitting atop a table that belonged in a gallery or museum.
“Sorry. I know . . . it’s kind of . . . a lot.”
