Page 77 of Coach
I may have blacked out.
Because I was not prepared to be turned on by pasta.
Or the way he was talking about it.
Or how he was looking at me while doing both.
I swear the way my pants tightened and throbbed had nothing at all to do with the quirk of his mouthor flex of his bicep as he stirred.
“You good over there, woodsman?” His grin widened. “Or did I break your brain with dairy?”
“All good. Really. Great, even,” I babbled.
His eyes glinted in the fluorescent light.
I watched him bustle around the kitchen like he belonged there—because he did. He was confident, effortless, and completely at home. And somehow, with every flick of his wrist or curse in Italian under his breath when he dropped a spoon, he pulled me a little closer to something I hadn’t expected.
It wasn’t just the food. Or the flirtation.
It was the life here.
It was him.
I’d tried to resist the pull, the gravitational weight that drew me into his orbit, but everything I said or thought or did led me back to his doorstep—or, in this case, his kitchen. Watching him, the lines of him, seeing his hair bob as he moved from stove to sink to cutting board, I grew more at ease than I thought possible only a few hours before. This man—this infuriatingly charming, handsome man—didn’t seem to notice or care that I was a stone wall of emotional vacancy. He seemed to see past my bluster, past my grunts and snarls. I wasn’t sure he’d seen me yet—that would be something I’d have to show him, something I hadn’t done with anyone in a very longtime—but he was beginning to see the shape of me.
At least, that’s what I hoped.
For once in my life, I wanted to be seen.
I wanted to be more than my work, than my profession.
I wantedhimto see me, to know me, to want me as much as I craved his infectious smile.
God, I craved his smile. Just admitting that sent chills down my spine. Who did that? Especially after only a few days? Was I some freak of gay nature, some outcast of outcasts, a baby deer who couldn’t learn to walk on his wobbly legs despite being nearly thirty years old?
The chair groaned as I leaned back, watching him move with determination, whipping some kind of Italian goodness into shape.
Then he plated the pasta.
He didn’t just scoop it—he twirled it into these perfect, restaurant-worthy mounds and sprinkled more cheese on top like he was conducting a goddamn symphony. Then he added a dash of parsley, a flick of pepper, topped by a low, satisfied hum that did things to me.
He carried both plates to the table and set mine down with a shallow bow. “Mangia,” he said, like he was blessing the meal.
The smell hit me like a Mack truck.
Pepper, cheese, butter—it was so simple, but unreal. Warm steam, sharp and rich enough to make my knees buckle, drifted upward, and my stomach growled so loudly I almost apologized to the pasta for making it wait.
I picked up the fork and took my first bite.
Sweet mother of carbs.
Flavor exploded across my tongue, rich and creamy and perfectly seasoned, and I closed my eyes for a second—just to process, to grieve for every inferior noodle I’d eaten before this.
Then my pants got tight.
Real tight.
Like, someone-was-going-to-have-to-ice-me-down tight.
