Page 31 of Coach
“What? It’s a fair question. I can’t wear a towel with a T-shirt, not a white one when the shirt’s white, too, right? That’d be too much white, even at Wimbledon.”
“Was that a serious question?” she wheezed.
“Uh, no. Of course not.”
It had been. What did I know about snooty tennis tournaments?
“Throw on the cleanest, most paint-free jeans you’ve got—and please, please, please wear a belt. Just make sure your shirt is clean, wrinkle-free, and a size too small, so it clings to your muscles. I’m fairly certain those were what won you the date in the first place.”
“Not my sparkling personality or cunning wit?”
She howled again.
“Man, that almost hurt.”
“If you had feelings, I would believe it,” shesnarked.
“Fuck you.”
“Go get dressed . . . then get laid. The rest of humanity needs you in a better mood.”
Chapter 11
Mateo
Bravos was already buzzing when I walked in—dim lighting, clinking glasses, exposed brick, and the faint hum of jazz-funk covers playing way too earnestly over the speakers. Lots of reclaimed wood, Edison bulbs, and enough Braves memorabilia to make any die-hard cry. It was the kind of place where you could wear jeans and still feel like you were doing something cool with your life.
I checked in, gave the hostess a smile that said, “Yes, I’m awkward, but also adorable,” and told her I was waiting for someone. My smile widened as she tried to Cirque du Soleil her body around my accent. I was humble about most things, but I knew my accent was a lottery winner. Men, women, small animals, they all cooed when I read the phone book aloud. Personally, I thought Irish accents were the sexiest things ever, but who was I to argue if others wanted to make their bed in Italy?
I stepped away from the podium, feeling the hostess staring at my butt, and remembered why I was there in the first place: Shane.
Just the thought made my stomach do that little swoop thing again.
I found a spot near the wall and pulled out my phone, pretending to scroll while checking the entrance every seven seconds like a raccoon guarding a trash can.
I wasn’t nervous.
I was just . . . sweating professionally.
Then the door opened.
And the whole room shifted.
Shane stepped inside, and half the restaurant turned to look. Aside from the guy being Reacher massive, he was wearing jeans that weren’t helping my concentration and a white T-shirt that was deeply invested in my personal undoing. There was no need to spill water on him to see every curve and crevice. His headlights were on bright and scanning the room like tiny, pinchable lighthouses. The shirt clung to his chest like a second skin, sleeves stretched just enough over those biceps to make me contemplate religion again. Every inch of him looked solid and criminally capable. His hair was still a little damp, like he’d showered right before leaving, and something about that made me forget how elbowsworked.
I might’ve made a sound.
It was quiet, but still . . .
A littlehnnghmight’ve escaped. It was just a breath, barely audible, possibly illegal under a dozen state indecency statutes. I glanced at the hostess to catch her interest shift from my useless accent to the giant man with the rack of abs that needed basting.
Shane spotted me, and I straightened. I slid my phone into my back pocket and smoothed my hair back to hide how I had just been ogling him.
“Hey,” he said, walking over.
And there it was again.
That voice.
