Page 273 of Coach
Was it all too much? Too soon? Too public?
What if he thought it was clingy?
What if I got sweaty palms like some idiot teenager?
Christ, I felt like I was sixteen on my first date.
Where was this going?
What did this even mean?
Why the hell had I agreed to go on an actual date with this man? He had his shit together, and I was little more than an itinerant bum making furniture out of his backyard storage hut.
Okay, I was neither itinerant nor a bum. I’d done well for myself, and my reputation proved as much.Still, sitting there beside the most delicious cup of espresso ever made, I felt wholly, entirely, completely inadequate.
Midway through the drive, Mateo huffed and reached for the stereo. “I’m tired of this. Mind if I change it?”
“Not at all,” I said, thankful for the switch from grunge to, well, anything else.
He scanned stations, flipping through static and commercials, until a familiar riff hit the speakers.
Journey.
“Don’t Stop Believin’.”
Mateo nodded to himself, then grinned, his eyes flicking toward me. “I love this. Do you know Journey?”
My heart skipped a beat.
Did I know Journey?
Ilivedfor Journey.
Half my shop playlists were Journey.
They were the one damn band that always got me through late nights and long sanding marathons.
For a second, words stuck in my throat.
Then I managed, voice a little too soft, “Yeah. I know ’em.”
As the chorus built, my chest tightened with something that felt too big, too bright, too terrifying to name.
And damn it, Mateo started singing, quiet at first, tentative, as though he wasn’t sure his voice was good enough to be heard. When Steve and the boys kicked into high gear, Mateo shed all his fears and belted at the top of his lungs.
And fuck a rabbit, the boy could sing. On top of everything else, he had a solid voice.
He snuck a peek out the side of an eye and caught me grinning from ear to ear. Like a fucking goofy idiot, I was grinning so wide it hurt.
Before I knew what was happening, my sandpaper voice was mingling with his as we both tried—and failed—to reach the high notes. Mateo’s laughter echoed throughout the car, and for the first time in my life, I heard a sound I liked more than the songs of the great Steve Perry and his band.
God help me—was that what happiness felt like?
I didn’t know because I couldn’t remember feeling anything quite like it.
Long after the song ended and some other band tried to take Journey’s place, I realized my hand was warm. Glancing down, I found Mateo’s palm smothering mine, two fingers entwined, one tapping to the beat of Adam Lavine’s drummer.
I stared, unable to move, unwilling to move lest our hands part and I lose that connection now tethering me to all things Italy. So, unsure what else todo, I watched him drive. His mouth was set in a perpetual smile, and his eyes glittered like a dragon’s hoard of gold. Something expanded in my chest, and I wondered if I might be coming apart at the seams.
