Page 277 of Coach
If Matt’s gaze lands on us next . . . oh God . . . why had I brought us here?
I was not prepared to be publicly roasted about dating a hot woodworker in front of an entire club.
“Please skip us. Please skip us. Please skip us,” I intoned under my breath.
Shane arched a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I whispered, eyes locked on Matt as he straightened, mic in hand, scanning for his next target. He’d left the women wetting themselves and was now searching for a new victim.
And all I could think was:Dear God, please pick anyone but us . . .
But fate was a cruel bitch.
Matt straightened, cocked his head—and locked on.
“Oh, what do we have here?” He grinned, pacing to the edge of the stage and squinting toward our table. “Couple good-looking dudes sitting in the front row like they own the place. What’re your names, fellas?”
I wanted to melt into the floor.
But my mouth, traitorous thing, worked on autopilot. “Mateo.”
Matt lit up. “Mateo? Oh, well, shit—now we’re talking.” He sauntered to the edge of the stage, leaning in like we were old friends and shielding his eyesfrom the spotlight. “That’s a dangerous name right there. You hear that roll off the tongue? That’s the kind of name that sounds like a cock sliding into a hole with every syllable.”
The crowd howled.
My face went nuclear.
Mike cackled beside me, completely unhelpful. Shane snorted once—but I could feel his hand squeeze mine tighter under the table.
“Are you the hole or is he?” Matt gestured with the microphone to Mike.
I shook my head, leaning closer to Shane.
“Oh!” Matt’s eyes widened. “Not into gingers. You’re more of a David dates Goliath kind of guy. I get that.”
I tried to say something. I really tried.
Shane’s shoulders shook with laughter.
Traitor.
Matt grinned wider, eyes glittering. “Say your name again for me, baby. Say it slow, like you mean it, like you’re makin’ love . . . or pasta . . . I don’t care which. Both go down just right.”
I shook my head, heat climbing my neck. “I’m good, thanks.”
More laughter. Mike was doubled over.
Matt wagged a finger. “Spoil sport.” He looked to the audience. “Can you imagine that voice whisperingin your ear? ‘Ciao, bella. . .’ Boom—pregnant.”
I groaned, wishing for death.
But Matt wasn’t done.
Oh no.
His eyes slid to Shane.
And then he took a step back.
