Page 292 of Coach
Then Sisi squealed and hopped to her feet, drink splashing dangerously in her wineglass. “Mateo! Shane! You picked up a third before you’ve even made yourselves official? That’s a bold move, boys, a bold move.”
Jeremiah damn near choked. “I—what—no—I’m just—”
“Sisi! No, this is Jeremiah. He was alone! We invited him! It’s not—”
“Oh, I see,” she purred, twirling toward Jeremiah. “Found you a loner who wouldn’t be missed? That’s some classic serial killer shit. You watch a lot of TV, Mateo Ricci, far too much. I bet you lured him in with baked goods and holiday cheer, hmm?”
Jeremiah turned bright red and hid behind Shane and the dish of roasted vegetables he was carrying.
“You’re impossible.” I felt my own face heating. “Jeremiah is Shane’s delivery guy.”
“Oh, a workplace romance. I love that trope!” Sisi tittered.
Through it all, Shane remained completely unflappable, standing tall and calm with his dish in one hand, the very picture of stoic amusement.
Mrs. H bustled in from the kitchen, wooden spoon waving faster than Harry Potter’s wand. “What’s all this screeching? Oh! You boys brought a stray. Lovely. Lord knows these gatherings need more eye candy.”
She drank in a long look. “And damn-fucking-nation, that boy is fine. What I want for Christmas is his shirt on the floor, ya hear me?”
Jeremiah made a helpless noise.
Sisi had to set her glass down as her howls quickly morphed into a pee-pee dance I feared might bubble over.
Mike rose and stood behind Sisi. “Careful, Jeremiah. They’ll have you naked save for an apron before dessert.”
The room roared.
I was about to intervene, to rescue poor Jeremiah, when Omar, from his perch on the arm of the couch, finally spoke, his cool, British drawl sharp as ever.
“Well,” he said with a lazy smile, eyes flicking over Jeremiah’s shoulders and chest, “with arms like those, someone needs to mount his Everest.”
Mrs. H dropped her spoon and began snorting uncontrollably, the words “mount his Everest” sneaking out when she came up for air.
I dropped my face into my hands and groaned, “We will never live this down.”
Shane’s voice, low and dry, cut through beside me. “Speak for yourself. I’m enjoying the hell out of this, and it’s just getting started.”
And damn it—when I peeked through my fingers, the tiny smirk on his face nearly melted me on the spot.
“All right.” Mrs. H gathered herself. “Let the poor boy get into the door. You two, put your food in the kitchen and make yourselves a drink. Jeremiah, bathroom’s down that hall. Before this night’s over, you’ll either need to pee or flee. The loo is good for both.”
Shane followed Mrs. H into the kitchen, as ordered, while Sisi snaked her arm in Jeremiah’s and led him to the couch. I took up residence in the lounger across the coffee table from the couch.
Movement in the entrance to the hallway caught my eye as the third in our little trio of large, muscular men filled the opening that led to back of the house. He’d missed the grand entrance and subsequent teasing because—judging by his mildly damp hair and bewildered expression—he’d been in thebathroom the entire time.
He paused just inside the den, taking in the sight of Sisi mid-cackle, Jeremiah blushing like a human tomato, and Matty glittering like a Christmas disco ball.
Elliot’s brow ticked up half a centimeter. “I leave the room for five minutes . . .”
His voice was dry and low—classic Elliot—and somehow that made Sisi laugh harder.
“Elliot, darling!” she cried, holding up her drink in greeting. “You’ve missed the scandal! Mateo and Shane brought a third!”
Elliot’s gaze flicked to Jeremiah—who looked ready to sink through the floor—and then to where I sat dreaming of the magic of invisibility.
He gave a single slow blink and said, “Efficient.”
That was all.
