Page 43 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

I ’d told myself I wasn’t going to be weird about this. It was just a night out, riding together like normal people.

Except nothing about this was normal.

I pulled into Mateo’s driveway right on time, parked, and tried to look casual when he opened the door and bounded toward my truck.

He looked . . .

God.

Way too good.

Fitted jeans hugged in all the right places, a simple black T-shirt somehow made his shoulders look broader, and his damn hair—black waves fell just loose enough to make my fingers twitch.

I was so distracted that I nearly forgot the plan until he leaned into my rolled-down window. “You’re riding with me, remember? I already mapped parking. ”

“Right. Yeah. Good plan.” Real smooth, Shane, totally smooth.

I locked up the truck and climbed into his car. His scent—warm spice like cinnamon and something I couldn’t name—wrapped around me the second I buckled in. Was he trying a new cologne while baking cookies?

He shot me a grin. “Ready?”

“Sure.” My voice came out rougher than I meant.

The drive started easy enough, Mateo humming along as he pulled out of the neighborhood. He cranked the stereo up, some indie rock playlist already running.

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t hate it but didn’t really hear it, either.

Mostly, I was too busy staring out the window and trying not to glance at him too much.

But God—he looked good tonight.

Every time he shifted gears, that flex of his forearm, the way his shirt tugged across his chest—I was losing my damn mind.

When his fingers tapped the steering wheel to the beat?

Forget it. All I could think about was those fingers tapping against my chest, digging into the meat of my muscle, begging me to dive deeper inside him.

I wanted to reach over, just slide my hand over his, maybe lace our fingers .

Nothing crazy, just a simple human connection, the kind only craved with my wood carvings. Wanting that, wanting to touch and be touched, was so far outside my normal orbit that I barely knew how to ask for it.

And I wanted to ask. If I took it—and I knew Mateo would let me; his reaction to me overeager sexual appetite proved that—it wouldn’t be the same.

It would be a conquest or something. No, if we touched that way, I wanted him to want it, too .

. . to give me permission . . . to maybe even ask for it.

Except I didn’t know if I should suggest something so intimate, so personal. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I knew how to ask for such a thing.

Was it all too much? Too soon? Too public?

What if he thought it was clingy?

What if I got sweaty palms like some idiot teenager?

Christ, I felt like I was sixteen on my first date.

Where was this going?

What did this even mean?

Why the hell had I agreed to go on an actual date with this man? He had his shit together, and I was little more than an itinerant bum making furniture out of his backyard storage hut.

Okay, I was neither itinerant nor a bum. I’d done well for myself, and my reputation proved as much. Still, sitting there beside the most delicious cup of espresso ever made, I felt wholly, entirely, completely inadequate.

Midway through the drive, Mateo huffed and reached for the stereo. “I’m tired of this. Mind if I change it?”

“Not at all,” I said, thankful for the switch from grunge to, well, anything else.

He scanned stations, flipping through static and commercials, until a familiar riff hit the speakers.

Journey.

“Don’t Stop Believin’.”

Mateo nodded to himself, then grinned, his eyes flicking toward me. “I love this. Do you know Journey?”

My heart skipped a beat.

Did I know Journey?

I lived for Journey.

Half my shop playlists were Journey.

They were the one damn band that always got me through late nights and long sanding marathons.

For a second, words stuck in my throat.

Then I managed, voice a little too soft, “Yeah. I know ’em.”

As the chorus built, my chest tightened with something that felt too big, too bright, too terrifying to name .

And damn it, Mateo started singing, quiet at first, tentative, as though he wasn’t sure his voice was good enough to be heard. When Steve and the boys kicked into high gear, Mateo shed all his fears and belted at the top of his lungs.

And fuck a rabbit, the boy could sing. On top of everything else, he had a solid voice.

He snuck a peek out the side of an eye and caught me grinning from ear to ear. Like a fucking goofy idiot, I was grinning so wide it hurt.

Before I knew what was happening, my sandpaper voice was mingling with his as we both tried—and failed—to reach the high notes. Mateo’s laughter echoed throughout the car, and for the first time in my life, I heard a sound I liked more than the songs of the great Steve Perry and his band.

God help me—was that what happiness felt like?

I didn’t know because I couldn’t remember feeling anything quite like it.

Long after the song ended and some other band tried to take Journey’s place, I realized my hand was warm. Glancing down, I found Mateo’s palm smothering mine, two fingers entwined, one tapping to the beat of Adam Lavine’s drummer.

I stared, unable to move, unwilling to move lest our hands part and I lose that connection now tethering me to all things Italy.

So, unsure what else to do, I watched him drive.

His mouth was set in a perpetual smile, and his eyes glittered like a dragon’s hoard of gold.

Something expanded in my chest, and I wondered if I might be coming apart at the seams.

“Here we are,” he said, announcing our arrival. I’d been so absorbed in my mental menagerie that I hadn’t caught us turning into a driveway and parking.

Mateo made to pull his hand away, but my fingers gripped, held him tight, refused to let go. He gave me a little squeeze and smiled, locking with my gaze. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll hold your hand in the club, too.”

And just like that, he pulled away and climbed out of the car.