Page 34 of Coach
Score one for the quiet guy.
We were alone again, the hum of the room wrapping around our little corner like white noise. He leaned in, resting his forearms on the table. “So . . . Shane Douglas, you always show up looking like a body double for an action movie, or was that just for me?”
My ears went hot.
I didn’t answer right away.
Anything I said would’ve come out wrong . . . would’ve sounded like flirting.
And I didn’t do flirting . . . or cute.
And I sure as hell wasn’t sitting there wondering how the hell this man and his perfect accent had already carved out space in my chest like it belonged to him.
I glanced down at my plain white T and said the dumbest thing anyone might say on a first date.
“It was clean.”
Mateo’s belly laugh was so quick and rich I worried I might get a cavity or stomachache just listening to it. I just stared and blinked, unsure how to react to whatever he thought was so funny.
“You know, we Italians take our fashion very seriously.”
“Oh,” I said, sneaking another peek at my T-shirtand feeling very self-conscious about my life choices.
He grinned—and the restaurant brightened.
“You did well, Shane,” he said, letting me off the hook. “That shirt looks like it was made for your chest and arms. If we knew each other better, I would want to run my hands over it, feel the fabric stretched over your taut, sexy—”
“Two IPAs, gentlemen.” The waiter saved me before I could break out into a sweat.
I snatched up my glass stein and threw it back, draining half the glass in one pull. Mateo gaped as I set the mug down and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
“What?” I asked, pretending to not understand how brutish I’d just appeared. “I was thirsty.”
He chuckled, his eyes crinkling in the happiest way, then lifted his own mug and downed half in a slightly longer pull—but still in only one, just like mine. When his stein thunked against the table, he grinned and winked. “Try to keep up, big guy.”
For the first time in . . . I couldn’t remember how long . . . I smiled. It wasn’t one of those “thank you for your business” grins I gave customers. No, it was an unrestrained, unhindered expression of pure joy that I’d almost forgotten how to express. I felt it deep inside, as though it were a tangible, tickly thing that needed me to acknowledge its existence.
“Did the great Shane Douglas just smile?”
My head ducked.
“And now he blushes?Cara Dio, what is happening here?”
“Shut up,” I growled as I tried to force the curl from my lips. “You don’t know me. I smile plenty.”
Mateo leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. “Oh, really now? What was the last thing that made you smile?”
I stared . . . and blinked. He was calling my bluff.
Bastard.
I couldn’t tell him that seeing him staring at my wet body after I’d spilled my water was the last time I’d smiled. His ego, clearly, was already too healthy for his sexy frame.
Before that?
I thought a moment. My lips pursed into a tight line again. My brow furrowed.
“It wasn’t a trick question,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms.
