Page 11 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

I don’t know what I expected when Shane pulled up. Maybe flannel, some sawdust, definitely a grim nod, you know—classic woodsy brooding man energy.

What I got instead was a flimsy tank top that had once been yellow or beige—I wasn’t sure which—that looked like it had survived a bear attack and lost the will to live.

And under that tank top?

There was sin.

Muscley, carved-from-oak, why-didn’t-anyone-warn-me-about-it sin.

I will die before admitting to anyone that I stared at him through the den window, hiding behind partially drawn curtains, unable to make my legs move toward the door. If Matty or Sisi—or, Heaven forbid, Mrs. H—ever found out about that, I would never live it down.

Shane stepped out of the driver’s side like a truck commercial in slow motion—boots hitting pavement, shoulders broad enough to block the noonday sun, biceps doing things that should require permits in at least six states.

And his old tank clung to him like it knew it was lucky.

Finally realizing I couldn’t hide forever, I left the safety of my curtain-perch and stepped through my front door. I took one step down from the porch and stumbled over absolutely nothing.

I . . . just forgot how feet worked.

“Uh—you all right?” Shane asked, his Cro-Magnon brow furrowed.

Say words, Mateo. Any words.

“What? Yeah. No. Yes. Sorry, sun. In my eyes. The sun can be bright like that, you know. I—uh—hi.”

Smooth.

He nodded once. “Hi.”

Even his voice sounded like it had stubble.

I flailed my hands toward the truck. “Did you—uh—bring the piece?”

Of course he brought the piece. That was why he was here. That was like asking a pizza guy if he brought pizza.

But I couldn’t stop myself.

My incessant babbling stupidity was an unstoppable force.

“Yeah,” he said, turning toward the bed of the truck. “Wrapped it up tight. Just need to unload.”

I nodded too fast. “Right! Yes. Good. That’s … excellent.” I blinked again, trying to reboot my brain. “You look hot.”

What?

Why did I say that?

Why was I commenting on his body temperature like a malfunctioning grandmother?

“It’s hot out.” He shrugged before swiping his forearm over his forehead.

I watched, in real time, as he tipped back the glass of water I’d handed him, drank like a man who hadn’t seen hydration in days—and tossed half of it down his front. It wasn’t an on-purpose toss, more like the glass slipped in the most perfect way possible.

I might’ve blacked out for a second.

The tank top, already hanging on by its last thread of decency, went transparent. Just melted against him, clung to the curve of his chest like it was grateful, revealed every sculpted ridge and cut and groove like Michelangelo had risen from the grave and said, “Yeah, this one’s mine.”

His chest looked like someone carved it with a chisel, solid and broad, like it had broken through several shirts in its lifetime just by existing too hard.

And his abs?

They were crime scene-level definition, abs you could play scales on, abs that could do my taxes, abs that came with their own warning label for people with heart conditions.

The water just dripped down them across his shirt—slow, casual, like it had nowhere else to be but sliding past the indents I wasn’t supposed to be staring at.

The sun caught on his arms and turned his skin golden, like God was playing favorites and forgot to be subtle about it. And I was just . . . standing there. Useless.

Useless with a capital “thirsty.”

I couldn’t even blink properly. My brain was trying to decide between fight, flight, or lick, and none of those were socially acceptable, certainly not in the middle of the day in my driveway.

I was a grown-ass man.

I was composed.

I was a basketball coach with a master’s degree.

And I was short-circuiting over one very wet, very broody carpenter like a Victorian maiden at her first dance.

It was art. He was art.

He was thirst-trap Picasso.

And I, Mateo Ricci, was a gaping, blinking idiot .

Then—without any warning—he began hopping on one foot like some cartoon character had just smacked his toes with a giant mallet. That’s when his hand—holy mother of pearl—shot down the front of his jeans where his junk was, well, doing whatever junk did when trapped in denim.

Was he playing with himself? Was this part of his service? I was speechless . . . and like an angry Italian mother, I was never without words.

A few horny heartbeats later, his hand emerged with an ice cube clutched between two fingers. That’s when my brain decided to return to work. I’m not sure if it should have.

“Sorry,” I blurted. “That was—sorry. That looked cold.”

He just nodded, stone-faced, like that kind of thing happened all the time, then flicked the offending ice cube into my lawn. Damn, if I didn’t wonder how that piece of ice had enjoyed its stay in the bush . . . well, in Shane’s bush.

“Let’s get this inside,” he said, pulling the blanket off the sideboard like I hadn’t just had a spiritual moment with my sweat glands.

Somehow, I managed to gulp back my desire and resume being a sentient adult.

We grabbed the sideboard and moved together down the hall—me steering, him carrying the bulk.

Every time he turned, his wet shirt flexed with him, and I had to remind myself that staring was impolite.

And dangerous to my dignity . . . and sideboard.

When we got it in place against the far wall of the den, he stepped back to give it a once-over.

“You okay with the height?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, pretending I hadn’t just been checking out his forearms as though they owed me money. “It’s perfect. Seriously, Shane. It’s . . . beautiful.”

He didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod and glanced around the room, eyes landing on the rug.

“You have a good eye,” he said. “That rug’s something.”

We chatted, me telling stories of the rug’s history in our family, and him staring down with a stern glare that either suggested murderous intent or deep thought. I was fairly certain it was the latter.

“So,” I said, after we’d stood in my den drinking two fresh, un-junked glasses of water for a few minutes. “You do this a lot?”

What a stupid thing to say , the voice in my head echoed. We weren’t at a gay bar. He was a professional delivering furniture.

God, please save me—or strike me down. I don’t care which right now.

Shane shrugged again, showing no amusement or emotion whatsoever. “Sometimes, when the client doesn’t have a truck.”

Right. Delivery. He wasn’t even thinking I was hitting on him—which I wasn’t.

“Want to grab dinner?”

Shane blanched, the first crack in his stone visage, save for the ice-meeting-balls incident, and that didn’t count because, well, who could have ice on his balls and not jump a little?

“Now?” he asked. “It’s just past noon.”

He wasn’t saying “no,” but the utter lack of warmth in his tone made me wonder if he welcomed the invitation or thought I was a complete idiot for asking. Hell, maybe the giant wasn’t even gay. I’d made that assumption based on what? My desire to lick his abs and taste his every curve.

“I didn’t mean to assume. I just wanted to say thanks for coming all this way out . . . and I guess . . . I mean, if you’re not . . . oh, shit . . . Are you? If you aren’t into guys or dates or dinner or fuck . . . please don’t be upset—”

“Yes,” he said, mercifully ending my stream of consciousness.

“Yes?”

“I’m gay. And yes to dinner.”

I remembered to breathe again.

“Okay, good . . . about being gay . . . and dinner. About both, actually. Say, seven? I need to do a few things and clean up and try to remember how to speak,” I said, barely managing to avoid verbal vomit.

He stared—no, he glared—then nodded once as though sealing a medieval truce on a battlefield. “Sure. No sushi.”

“Deal. No sushi.” I smiled and tried to keep my inner boy in check. I was about to suggest No. 246, a cozy, elegant little place in Decatur, closer to him, when he raised a palm like a patrolman.

“And nothing fancy.”

“No sushi. No black tie. Got it.” I raised my phone and waved. “I’ll text you the address once I have a place figured out. I was thinking Decatur since it’s sort of in the middle, between our places?”

He grunted something of agreement and did that one-nod thing again.

And just like that, we had a date.