Page 33 of Coach
He looked good. Better than good, with jeans that fit like a dream, a slate blue long-sleeve rolled to his tanned elbows, and a scent I couldn’t place but wanted to track like a bloodhound.
Maybe the best part was that he was flustered. That much was clear. His eyes were a little too wide, stance a little too still, like he’d just blacked out mid-greeting and was waiting for his brain to come back online.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t charming.
Hell, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t . . . cute.
But I didn’t do cute.
I didn’tdoanything that fluttered.
Or burned in my chest.
Especially not for a man who looked at me like I was the eighth wonder of the world just for showing up.
The hostess appeared, clipboard in hand and a tired smile pasted across her face.
“Mateo, party of two?”
He nodded, his eyes flicking between her and me, and she motioned for us to follow.
Bravos was a weird hybrid—equal parts polished bistro and sports-pub fever dream. Exposed brick walls, industrial lighting, Braves jerseys framed in glass, and a mural of the 1995 World Series team in the back above the bar. Half the staff wore black shirts with crisp black aprons; the other half sported Braves caps and unapologetic sarcasm.
And the place was packed.
Couples hunched over cocktails at tall tables where stools were barely used. Friends clinked beer glasses, while some guy in a Matt Olson jersey talked way too loud about fantasy baseball trades.
The hostess led us to a corner table with a view of the whole dining room—perfect for keeping an eye on everything, not that I cared.
Old habits. A clear view of the exits never hurt.
I pulled out Mateo’s chair without thinking, thendropped into my own with all the grace of a log rolling downhill.
Mateo raised a brow but didn’t comment.
When the waiter came by—a skinny guy with sleeve tattoos and way too much enthusiasm—he launched into the drink menu.
Mateo skimmed it for about two seconds before asking, “What’ve you got on tap?”
I blinked.
He wasn’t ordering wine or some foofy drink with an umbrella or cartoon animal clinging to a straw, not an artisanal cucumber cocktail or something with elderflower and a rim made of Himalayan salt.
Just . . . beer.
I felt something shift in my chest, something dangerously close to respect.
The waiter rattled off a few names.
Mateo tapped the table. “Let’s do the IPA from Three Taverns. I think I had that one last time I was here.”
“Solid.” I nodded, then addressed the waiter with my usual loquaciousness. “Same.”
As the waiter vanished into the crowd, Mateo gave me a crooked grin. “Thought about ordering something pink and fizzy just to mess with you.”
“Wouldn’t stop me from drinking it if it was good.”
He blinked as though he hadn’t expected that.
