Page 46 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

I woke to warmth.

Sunlight crept through the slats of the blinds, casting soft stripes across my crimson comforter.

I blinked, my brain foggy from too little sleep and too much alcohol the night before. I rubbed my eyes, blinking a few times, then smacked my lips together to chase away the morning funk in my mouth. It didn’t help.

And then I felt it.

There was a heavy weight against my side, one large arm sprawled across my stomach, with fingers twitching now and then, like even asleep Shane couldn’t stay still. His leg was thrown half across mine, the sheet tangled somewhere around his thigh, leaving an expanse of bare skin pressed against me.

I turned my head carefully, slowly.

And there he was .

Shane Douglas, the walking wall of stoicism and logger charm, completely wrecked in sleep.

His hair was a riot—wild curls shooting off in every direction, a cowlick sprouting atop his head like some broken tiara.

His mouth hung open, the faintest snore vibrating from his chest in a sound that was kind of adorable.

His brow was furrowed, like even unconscious he was fighting some invisible battle, and his cheek was smushed against the pillow in the most unflattering, uncomposed way imaginable.

The other side of his face still held marks from where he’d lay pressed too firmly against the seam of the pillowcase.

He looked a mess.

He looked perfect.

And I wanted to capture that moment, to take a photo in my mind and never forget it.

I smiled, warmth spreading low in my chest, dangerous and bright.

Last night . . .

It all flooded back in a hungover blur. The club, the drive home, Shane losing his shit . . . then his pee . . . then losing it even worse on my bathroom floor. I couldn’t remember ever laughing so much or so hard, certainly not for an entire evening.

And never—not in a million years—could I have predicted Shane would’ve been the man to give me that much amusement. Stoic, stubborn, one-word Shane. Who knew he could be so . . . whatever he’d been?

But more than just the laughs and jokes and drunken silliness, something had cracked open. I’d seen it in his eyes, on his face, in the way he laughed so freely and touched me like his palm belonged against my skin.

Something had changed. I could feel it.

Watching this man—this big, broody, grumbly man—giggle like an idiot in my passenger seat, cry about peeing on my floor, melt when I stroked his hair . . . it had shown me more of him than I think he’d ever let anyone see.

And God help me, I loved it.

Because this? This was him .

It wasn’t the polished, careful Shane he showed to the world or the craftsman with perfect lines and precision joints. It wasn’t the guarded man who thought feeling too much might break him—or everyone around him.

No, this Shane—this sleepy, messy, vulnerable Shane—was the one who had somehow, without warning, wrapped himself around my heart like I was his favorite piece of wood to carve.

And lying there in that tangle of limbs and sheets, I realized something else, something that hit so deep it made me hold my breath.

I wasn’t in this just for the fun anymore.

Nor for the sex.

Not even for the flirting or the thrill of the new.

I wanted more.

I wanted mornings like this.

Nights like last night.

Days when he’d let go and trust that I wouldn’t run when things got messy—literal pee-covered floors included.

I wanted him .

And that scared the hell out of me.

Because falling for someone like Shane wasn’t going to be easy.

And it was far too soon to want that much.

Jesus, we’d only known each other for a few weeks, and the guy wasn’t exactly an open book.

I had to pry even the most basic information out of him, like what he might want on his pizza.

Getting to know the real man buried deep beneath his layers of something I still didn’t know would take forever. It might not even be possible.

What would I do if he never let me in?

How could I fall for a man who held me at arm’s distance?

There were so many questions, so many doubts. This was insane. I was insane .

But as I watched him, his lashes fluttering, mouth parted in that ridiculous not-so-tough way, I knew one thing for sure:

I was already falling.

And I wasn’t about to stop.

I didn’t want to stop.

I couldn’t stop.

I wanted to fall with all the weight of the world and never get back up again.

Because he would catch me.

I knew he would.

Deep down, I just knew it.

I reached down and tried to smooth some of his ruffled hair. It plopped back into its misshapen place once my fingers lifted.

I smiled at his mess, at his perfectly imperfect mess.

He grumbled—a low, gravelly sound halfway between a groan and a mumble.

Then, slowly, those beautiful storm-gray eyes fluttered open, blinking blearily at me.

“Hey you.”

And just like that, my heart did another dangerous flip.

“Hey,” I whispered back.

He winced. “Why are you yelling?”

I grinned. “That was a whisper. ”

“God, you yelled again.”

I leaned down and kissed his nose.

His eyes crossed trying to follow my motion, only making my grin widen.

“Hungry?” I asked.

He nodded. “And I need Advil, stat.”

“No cookies?”

His brow furrowed. “Cookies?”

“Never mind. I’ll get you some painkillers and get started on breakfast. If you want to shower, knock yourself out. I’m slow in the kitchen.” I pushed to get up, then paused. “I would offer you a shirt, but I don’t think anything I own was made in pup-tent size.”

His mouth twitched, like he was trying to grin but failed. “It’s okay. I don’t stink too bad.”

I leaned down, sniffed his shirt, and tried not to gag. The scent of cigarette smoke and alcohol was stronger on him than I remembered from the club.

“That bad?” he asked.

I nodded. “You might have to just go naked. I’m sensitive to smells.”

He gaped, then a grin formed. “You’re yanking my chain, aren’t you?”

“He’s not just hot; he’s bright, too.” I kissed his lips and hopped off the bed. “Breakfast in twenty. Take your time. ”

“Coffee, please. Lots and lots of coffee.”

I chirped over my shoulder, “I’m Italian. It’s assumed.”

The bacon was on the table, a stack of pancakes almost done, and I was scrambling eggs, humming to myself, when arms wrapped around me from behind. I’d been so absorbed in whatever song was rattling through my head that I startled at his touch, nearly tossing eggs onto the counter.

He nuzzled my neck, burying his nose and kissing me, holding his lips to my skin for the longest moment. When he pulled back, he didn’t stop holding me, just stood there with his arms around my waist and his chest pressed close against my back as I cooked.

It was such a simple moment.

There were no flashing lights or rose petals falling from the ceiling. Doves didn’t fly out of anyone’s ass. And yet, for some mystical reason, that moment wormed its way deep inside me and curled around my heart.

I wanted this. I wanted him waking up next to me, holding me, kissing my neck as I scrambled eggs.

I wanted the simplicity of another man caring enough to make me feel special.

I wanted Shane.

God, I was turning into—

“Mm. Smells good,” he growled next to my ear in a way that made my cock twitch.

Damn it, I was cooking. I didn’t have time for random body parts to stand up and salute.

“Coffee’s over there.” I pointed to the opposite side of the kitchen where I’d set up an elaborate station with a coffee maker, espresso machine, and more pump bottles of flavored syrup than one might see at Starbucks.

Shane whistled. “You do love your java.”

His warmth evaporated as he padded across the kitchen. I listened to him sifting through his options before starting the Keurig. He pumped something a few times, then stirred, the spoon clanking against the ceramic mug.

There was nothing mind-bending about him making coffee.

But he was making it in my kitchen . . . while I cooked for him . . . after we’d slept so tangled together I was surprised we un-pretzeled ourselves when we woke.

I let out a contented sigh.

His lips startled me again, gently pressing into the back of my neck.

“I like sleeping next to you,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Waking next to you. You feel good.”

Eggs done, I switched off the burner and whirled, not wasting a second before planting my lips on his.

“I really like you, Shane.” I reached up and toyed with his stubborn cowlick. “I like dating you a lot, even if you pee on my floor.”

His eyes popped wide, and I thought he was going to object, deny it, defend himself of my unwarranted accusation, but his mouth twisted upward at the corners, and a tiny chuckle slipped free.

“Guess I was kind of a mess last night,” was all he said before letting his forehead fall to my shoulder.

“Last night was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time . . . because of you.” I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him close. “And you looked so damn hot when you took your shirt off in front of everyone. I thought Matt Rife might leap down from the stage and lick you right there.”

He grinned again, something I was beginning to crave. “I got a pocketful of phone numbers from the bridesmaids.”

I slapped his chest, grabbed the pan of eggs, and walked around him to the table. “How dare you cheat on me with drunk bachelorettes!” I said, pouring all the mock offense I could into my voice. “Here I thought you’d claimed me,” I added with a wink.

He growled as his arms shot forward, firm hands gripping me and pulling me back into him. “I did . . . I still do. You’re mine, Mateo Ricci. You hear me? ”

My logical brain knew better. It tried to object. It ranted and screamed and hooted.

So I slapped that bitch back into the eighties where it belonged.