Page 76 of Coach
He stopped at the edge of the bleachers, looked up at me with that sideways smile that already lived rent-free in my head, and said, “So. What are you hungry for?”
I wanted to say, “You,” but thankfully my stomach answered before my mouth could.
Instead, I stood and muttered, “Something warm and easy.”
I was neither of those things, but if he asked . . .
His smile widened a little as he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Why don’t we head back to my place? I’m the best Italian cook in America. I’ve only lostTop Chefin my dreams.”
I hesitated.
His place. His couch. His kitchen. His space.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. God knew I did. It wasn’t even that I didn’t trust him. It was . . . being inside someone else’s world like that felt too close, too easy to fall into.
I opened my mouth to deflect, but then he flashed me that grin again—the one that made his eyes sparkle just a little, like he was daring me to find a reason to say no.
I swallowed whatever excuse I’d been ready to give and nodded.
“All right,” I said. “But if your pasta’s bad, I’m leaving your texts unread forever.”
He laughed as he turned toward the exit. “You’ll be too busy crying from joy to text anyone.”
I followed him, each step louder than I wanted it to be.
I was so screwed—and for once in my life, I knew it.
Mateo’s house was quiet when we stepped inside. It was the kind of quiet that felt like lived-in comfort, not emptiness. The den was just as I remembered it—wood-paneled warmth, antique rug, the sideboard I’d delivered standing proud against one wall beneath a flat-screen television.
The hallway off the main entrance opened into a small kitchen and dining area. Both were bathed in warm tones and cluttered just enough to feel real. Copper pans hung from a rack above an island, and glass-cased shelves were crammed with cookbooks, trinkets from his travels, and what looked like a miniature bust of Julius Caesar wearing a chef’s hat.
Mateo tossed his keys in a bowl by the door andshrugged off his jacket, already moving with purpose. “All right, I’m starving,” he said, ruffling his hair as he headed for the fridge. “You’re lucky I didn’t eat your leg on the drive over. I thought about it a time or two.”
My brain tripped.
Did he just—
What kind of Hannibal Lecter flirting was that? It was flirting, wasn’t it?
He was already pulling out garlic, butter, pasta, and a handful of fresh herbs like this was a normal Tuesday. He didn’t seem to notice he’d broken my brain with those words.
“You ever hadcacio e pepe?” he asked, glancing at me with a grin.
I cleared my throat. “Can’t say I’ve ever had to defend my limbs from an Italian coach . . . and no, I’ve never had anyone’s pepe, much less Cacio’s, whoever he is.”
Mateo laughed, and every shadow that had ever lurked in his home fled.
“Then tonight’s your lucky night.”
He grabbed a skillet, twirled it, and set it on the burner like he was crowning the new king. “All right, so here’s what’s about to happen:cacio e pepe, Roman-style. First, butter—salted, because we’re not animals—goes in the pan. You wait until it meltslike it’s whispering secrets, then add freshly cracked pepper—not that pre-ground garbage. This is seduction, not war.”
By the time my eyes shifted from the pan to the counter, he was already tossing garlic cloves onto the cutting board and rolling up his sleeves. “You let the pepper bloom in the butter—like it’s falling in love—and then you add some of that gorgeous, starchy pasta water. Just a little, kind of like foreplay.”
I blinked.
Did he just sayforeplay?
He’d peeled the garlic and was slicing it, slow and deliberate, the edge of the knife glinting. “Then in goes the cheese—Pecorino Romano. It’s sharp and salty, like me when someone tries to use pre-shredded mozzarella. You stir it all together and you don’t stop stirring until it’s smooth, creamy, and practically moaning. And boom!” He looked up. “You’re welcome.”
