Page 14 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

“ Ciao! You made it,” Mateo said, all breathless brightness and soft curls over his forehead.

I nearly smiled.

Nearly.

Instead, I gave him a head bob and a quiet, “Hey.”

He looked good. Better than good, with jeans that fit like a dream, a slate blue long-sleeve rolled to his tanned elbows, and a scent I couldn’t place but wanted to track like a bloodhound.

Maybe the best part was that he was flustered. That much was clear. His eyes were a little too wide, stance a little too still, like he’d just blacked out mid-greeting and was waiting for his brain to come back online.

I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t charming.

Hell, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t . . . cute.

But I didn’t do cute .

I didn’t do anything that fluttered.

Or burned in my chest.

Especially not for a man who looked at me like I was the eighth wonder of the world just for showing up.

The hostess appeared, clipboard in hand and a tired smile pasted across her face.

“Mateo, party of two?”

He nodded, his eyes flicking between her and me, and she motioned for us to follow.

Bravos was a weird hybrid—equal parts polished bistro and sports-pub fever dream.

Exposed brick walls, industrial lighting, Braves jerseys framed in glass, and a mural of the 1995 World Series team in the back above the bar.

Half the staff wore black shirts with crisp black aprons; the other half sported Braves caps and unapologetic sarcasm.

And the place was packed.

Couples hunched over cocktails at tall tables where stools were barely used. Friends clinked beer glasses, while some guy in a Matt Olson jersey talked way too loud about fantasy baseball trades.

The hostess led us to a corner table with a view of the whole dining room—perfect for keeping an eye on everything, not that I cared.

Old habits. A clear view of the exits never hurt.

I pulled out Mateo’s chair without thinking, then dropped into my own with all the grace of a log rolling downhill.

Mateo raised a brow but didn’t comment.

When the waiter came by—a skinny guy with sleeve tattoos and way too much enthusiasm—he launched into the drink menu.

Mateo skimmed it for about two seconds before asking, “What’ve you got on tap?”

I blinked.

He wasn’t ordering wine or some foofy drink with an umbrella or cartoon animal clinging to a straw, not an artisanal cucumber cocktail or something with elderflower and a rim made of Himalayan salt.

Just . . . beer.

I felt something shift in my chest, something dangerously close to respect.

The waiter rattled off a few names.

Mateo tapped the table. “Let’s do the IPA from Three Taverns. I think I had that one last time I was here.”

“Solid.” I nodded, then addressed the waiter with my usual loquaciousness. “Same.”

As the waiter vanished into the crowd, Mateo gave me a crooked grin. “Thought about ordering something pink and fizzy just to mess with you.”

“Wouldn’t stop me from drinking it if it was good. ”

He blinked as though he hadn’t expected that.

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-shirt and 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.

My head lowered again as I mumbled, “I’m just quiet . . . and kinda serious, I guess . . . but I smile, inside, where it counts.”

He barked a laugh. “You’ll get an ingrown smile that way. Those are hard to treat.”

My brow furrowed again, then two brain cells collided, and I chuckled .

“See! That’s twice in how many minutes. Maybe you just need the right motivation.”

Huh. Had this man cracked my code in the first half hour of our first date? I’d been searching for the damn combination for thirty years. Who was this freak of nature?

“Enough about me. Who are you? Where are you from? Family? Talk.”

“Stoic and bossy. Noted.” He snickered, uncrossed his arms, and flashed a toothy grin.

And that darned critter tickling the inside of my chest did its dance again, right as the waiter reappeared to take our order.