Page 30 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

M ateo sat beside me, still holding my hand, staring at the TV like it might suddenly offer a lifeline.

A rerun of Card Sharks now played on the television, in all of its polyester suits and faux Vegas glory.

Some guy named Terry had just guessed “lower” on a six.

The host yelled his choice like it was the moon landing.

And me?

I was dying inside.

The moment I’d stopped talking, silence fell. It wasn’t an awkward silence—not exactly—but it was thicker than syrup on flapjacks. Heavy, like the air had gone dense with everything I’d just said.

What the hell did I just do? I asked myself.

I could still hear myself talking about Minnesota and my mom and how she unraveled under the weight of a life she never got to choose. How I’d left because I couldn’t bear to watch her disappear .

God.

I hadn’t planned to say any of it.

Mateo had asked a simple question, and I’d given him a field guide to every emotional pothole I’d spent a lifetime paving over.

I glanced at him.

He was still staring at the TV, still quiet. I was fairly certain he was staring at me in his peripheral vision but wasn’t sure whether or not he should turn and look at me.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure which would’ve been worse, which would’ve offered more scrutiny. My own mental musings were harsh enough for both of us.

Was he rethinking everything?

Trying to map the nearest escape route?

Calculating whether forehead-kissing a man with abandonment issues counted as emotional liability?

Did any of this even count as abandonment? I was the one who’d done the abandoning, after all. Maybe this was worse.

I ran a hand through my hair, my elbow braced on the arm of the couch.

He hadn’t let go, still squeezed my hand occasionally, still lent me his warmth.

“I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you,” I muttered. “Sorry. ”

He didn’t look at me right away, just gave a small shake of his head and said, “Don’t apologize.”

But nothing could stop the churn in my gut, the part of me that assumed opening up meant pushing people away. That little voice nagged and screamed and accused. That little voice was an echo of the past, and I hoped—with everything in me—it wasn’t a foreshadowing of things to come.

I turned and watched Mateo. His eyes remained fixed on the TV, leaving me to ponder his olive skin, the curve of his chin, the curl of his midnight hair. He was stunning, more beautiful than any man had a right to be. He was kind and generous—and he listened. He really listened.

And he hadn’t run.

But he hadn’t said anything else either.

Card Sharks buzzed and beeped. Someone clapped. None of it could drown out the wail of the tightening knot in my chest.

I wasn’t built for this.

Not for the dinner or the smiles—and not for his hand covering mine, feeling like heaven made flesh, soothing and comforting—and wanting to be with me.

I wasn’t built for any of it.

But sitting next to Mateo—close enough to feel the heat of him, his quiet steadiness—made me want to be.

He turned so suddenly I nearly jerked back. His eyes were pools of chocolate flecked with gold. He sucked in his bottom lip, then set it free to glisten in the lamp light.

I wanted to reach up and smooth the curls off his forehead, but something held me in place. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe.

Mateo leaned into me, into my world.

I could feel his breath, hot against my skin.

I could taste him, the wine still lingering on his tongue.

God, I wanted to—

He pressed his lips into mine, and my mind went blank.

Card Sharks faded away. The den vanished. The house evaporated.

There was only Mateo and the softest lips on the planet—and they were kissing me.

Blood rushed to every part of my body: my head, my fingertips, my cheeks—and holy cow, my cock. When was the last time that thing had stirred over someone live and in person? Screen time with Peachyboy or some other “star” didn’t count. I couldn’t remember—hell, I couldn’t think.

His tongue grazed my lips as he pulled back, our eyes coming together in a cosmic collision .

“I hope that was okay,” he breathed. I sucked in, willing his words inside me. “I’ve been wanting to do that, well, since the fair.”

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

“Really?”

His head ducked, and I swear, color bloomed in his cheeks as he smiled. “Really.”

“You wanted to kiss me? Seriously? Me?”

His brow furrowed. “Shane, do you have any idea how hot you are? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I popped a boner while you went on about wood grain and proper staining techniques.”

I gulped back something. Holy shit. He’d been into me all along. Me. How had I not seen any of it? How had I been so—

Mateo, seeming annoyed by my constant retreats, advanced.

His lips found mine, and his tongue decided it was also tired of playing things safely. I’d barely drawn a breath before our lips were locked, and his tongue was exploring the underside of my own, teasing and flicking and licking, gentle and powerful all at once, like his accent.

My chuckle ejected his tongue and fended off his lips.

“I kiss you, and you laugh? ”

I grinned—and damn if it didn’t feel good. “Sorry, my brain just compared your kiss to your accent, and, well, it was kind of funny.”

He cocked one brow. “Oh, really now? You think my accent is like a kiss?”

I shrugged and blinked innocently.

“What would you do if I switched into Italian for real?”

“I . . . I might cream my jeans right here.”

Mateo spat a laugh, then stared with such intensity I had to look away. His fingers guided my chin until I once again met his gaze.

“ Voglio fare cose sconce con te. ”

I growled. Damn, he was hot. “What does that mean?”

He leaned forward, tilting my head so he could whisper in my ear. “It means, ‘I want to do naughty things to you,’ Mr. Shane.”

A shiver raced through me so hard that my body shook.

Mateo, taking in the impact of his words, sat back and beamed.

“I haven’t . . . I mean, I have . . . it’s been a while since . . . I mean . . . since there was another person . . . shit . . . other than my hand . . .”

“ Dolce Gesù !” He ran a hand through his hair, letting an entire flock of curls fall across his forehead. “ Can I get you naked or not?”

I swallowed back all my insecurities and doubts, met his eyes, and gave him the widest grin my cheeks would allow. “Only if I get to undress you first.”