Page 92 of Coach
Flannel Daddy:I’ll be there at seven with soap, a sponge, and a rubber duckie.
Was that . . . a joke?
I gaped at the screen for an eternity before a laugh flew out so loud I startled myself.
Ryan, who was climbing into his Jeep next tome, bent down with scrunched brows and stared through my passenger side window. “Everything all right?”
I gave him a thumbs-up. “Fine. Just . . . something funny. All good.”
He cocked his head, then climbed into his Jeep and drove away.
Me:Tuesday, seven o’clock. You, me, a duckie, and a towel. It’s a date.
Flannel Daddy:Fuck the towel. See you then.
Chapter 30
Shane
The sun was already trying to hide outside, a sure sign of winter sneaking up on us with shorter days and colder nights. I’d been at it for a week and a half, cutting and planing and sawing. Taking on a massive order to fill a family’s third home down in somewhere Florida had been a godsend for my bank account but had left me with even less of a life than before. I’d barely left the shop—barely slept—since the work had begun.
Sawdust clung to my skin like a second layer, and the half-carved table leg in front of me felt more like a hostage than a project.
That’s when Stevie stepped in, her timing impeccable, as always.
Bootsclompedon the floor. I turned my head to find her arms crossed, blood red eyeliner streaked like war paint. “You do realize it’s Friday, right? Normal people stop work, drink, and fuck—or whateverthe hell they can to relax and wash the stink of the week off their bodies. Speaking of stink . . .”
I didn’t answer. Just turned back to the leg and kept chiseling. I was nearly done with the last of the claw foot curve and wanted to finish before surrendering to the weekend.
She sighed, and I swear I could feel her hand wave through the air behind me. “Fine, Mr. Asshole Boss. I’m clocking out . . . or I would be if you paid me hourly, which you should, considering I haven’t eaten since noon and your idea of lunch was stale pretzels someone shoved in your pantry sometime after Reagan left office.”
“Check the cabinet,” I said, not looking up. “There’s granola bars.”
“Great, we advanced to the Bush years . . . and yeah, we’re talkin’ Bush 41, not the son.”
I snorted. She was on fire.
“Okay, wow. The culinary generosity of a man with a six-pack and no sense of joy.” She stepped closer and tapped my shoulder with her taloned finger. “You’ve been here since five . . . in the morning . . . again.”
“Deadlines. I can’t feed you gourmet cabinet food if the clients don’t pay.”
“And they don’t pay if you don’t finish. Got it,” she huffed.
“Exactly!” Had she just said I was right? Maybe I should take her to a hospital, get her checked out.
“OT’s all lies.” Oh, shit. I heard a storm brewing in her voice. “You’re hiding from your hot Italian.”
My hand froze on the wood. I blinked, not daring to turn to face her.
There was a smirk in her voice. “Don’t act like you’re not thinking about him every time you stroke that wood. Hell, I bet you’ve stroked a lot of wood thinking about him lately.”
I groaned. “You’re the worst.”
She leaned against the worktable, pressing her boobs to my back in a way straight men might love. I, on the other hand, felt nothing but baby feeders smushing into my grungy shirt. As sweaty and gross as I was, she’d come to regret nuzzling her knockers against me.
“So what’s your excuse tonight? Avoiding romance for business? Gonna make out with mahogany instead of Mateo?”
Unwilling to let my shoulder blades ween any longer, I turned to face her again. “He’s coaching tonight.”
