Page 261 of Coach
“I guess I should get cleaned up and let you get some sleep. You’re still working on that big project, right?”
The project. Shit. I was so close to finished; and yet, every day—every piece completed—the client called and asked for another, pushing my timeline back another day or week, depending on the new request. It was good for business. This wasa well-funded, quick-paying client. Still, the work consumed my life just as I might want to find time for other pursuits.
Other pursuits? Who talks like that? And why would—
“You’re thinking.” Mateo’s hand, the one not teasing my back, reached up and traced down my cheek. “It worries me when you think.”
A tiny laugh slipped out. I couldn’t stop it.
Mateo’s grin warmed, causing my chest to do the same.
Damn him and his fucking accent.
“Sorry,” was all I could think to say.
His palm pressed against the side of my face. “Shower?”
“Uh, yeah, right,” I stammered, pressing myself up by pressing fists into the couch on either side of him. Before I could push off, he gripped me, his eyes roaming from my face to my chest, then lower.
“What?” I asked.
“Just looking,” he said, his smile twisting. “Your body is ridiculous.”
I knew I had a good body, was packed with muscle atop muscle. It had been a point of pride since my high school days. Still, hearing him say it, hearing the awe—or whatever it was—filling his voice? That sent a thrill of pride through me unlike any I’dknown before.
“Thanks,” I said.
He chuckled. “Now, get off me so we can clean up, you big brute.”
I pushed off, then reached a hand down to help him up. He stared at it for only a heartbeat, another smile tugging at his lips, before taking it and letting me haul him upright.
“Come on,” I muttered, voice rough. “Bathroom’s this way.”
I led him out the living room, down the short hallway, and into my bedroom. Mateo slowed, looking around, and I saw the space through his eyes.
The room was big, built like the rest of my oversized cabin. There were exposed beams overhead and wide-planked floors. The bed was massive, its frame hand-carved, a twisting lattice of branches and knots. The headboard reached nearly to the ceiling, a piece I’d made on a dare (and likely a joke) from Stevie.
As in the living room, nothing in the bedroom matched. Every dresser, nightstand, and bench was different, though each piece fit: the stained walnut chest by the window, the maple armoire with iron handles, even the live-edge oak shelf stacked with books and old records.
It shouldn’t have worked.
But somehow it did. It felt as though the whole room had grown up around me, piece by piece, until it had become something that felt . . . like home.
Mateo’s gaze lingered on the bed, and I coughed, hyper-aware of how naked we still were.
“Shower,” I said, steering him through the open archway into the bathroom.
The space was warm and simple, with stone tile, copper fixtures, and a walk-in shower big enough for two—because apparently some part of me knew this day might come.
I turned on the water, adjusting the heat until steam curled in the air. “You go first,” I offered.
Mateo smiled, that wicked, knowing look of his.
“Not a chance. Get in.” He left no room to argue or refuse.
I started to protest, but he stepped in close, pressed a kiss to my jaw, and tugged me under the spray. Hot water hit my back, and I groaned, my head tipping forward against the tile.
Then his hands were on me.
