Page 47 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

I don’t know what it was about Mateo—his unwavering smile, his inky hair that fell across his forehead and begged to be pushed back, or the way he said my name like it was some relic to be cherished.

Whatever it was, he’d wormed his way past all my defenses and taken up residence far too close to my core.

Just thinking about him, picturing him in my mind, made something bubble within me, made me feel like I was a twelve-year-old boy passing notes in class and trying not to get caught.

There was nothing tawdry or clandestine about our dating, but the nervous, jittery feeling mixed with a growing affection—a deep-down caring for another person I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around—that was what terrified me.

And excited me. Hell, it thrilled me—and made me want to run for the nearest mountain where no one could find me .

For a guy who prided himself on controlling his emotions, on experiencing as few as possible, my whole being was churning with the darn things, and I had no idea what to do with them all.

I felt like someone had implanted a chaotic chorus of singers inside me, and their discordant melodies rose and fell, making my heart beat faster, then slow to a titter, then race again.

Fucked.

I was well and truly fucked.

After breakfast, I reluctantly left Mateo’s house and headed home. An evening date was one thing, but the project currently paying the bills wouldn’t stomach me shirking a good day’s work.

I got home around ten and went straight to my workshop.

I breathed in the scents of sawdust and wood stain, holding the breath for a blissfully long moment.

To anyone else, it would’ve been annoying, smells to be cleaned away and wiped from the shop.

To me, they were the greeting of a thousand pieces artfully carved and lovingly crafted.

Those aromas were home.

Already sweating from the day’s growing heat, I stripped off my shirt, not wanting to mess up good flannel, and tossed it onto the chair from which Stevie taunted me. She rarely came by on weekends, so I wasn’t worried about her mocking me for “taking her chair” with my nasty clothes.

By noon, I’d lost track of time. Sweat and sawdust coated my chest and shoulders, making me look like I’d just rolled on a sandy beach.

Dark smudges where I’d wiped my brow, not realizing my hand was filthier than my face, streaked across my forehead and cheek. I was a complete mess, and I loved it.

It was only when my radio stopped blasting that I jarred out of my work-trance and looked up. Mateo stood in the doorway, a large brown bag cradled in his arms.

“Mateo?”

He smiled. Of course, he did.

“Hey. Sorry to interrupt. I was on this side of town, and, well, I knew you were working and wouldn’t stop for lunch, so I, um, kind of got us Chinese food. I hope it’s okay that I just showed up.”

I blinked a few times, trying to register him standing there. Had we talked about lunch? I didn’t think we had.

“Yeah, lunch is good,” was all my brain could manage. “It’s dusty here. Let’s go to the house.”

I blew sawdust off the piece I’d been working on, stood and returned my tools to their spot on the wall rack, and turned. Mateo hadn’t moved. I glanced down at my bare chest, at the layer of grime coating my body, and winced .

“I need to clean up.”

Mateo stared. “If we didn’t have Chinese to eat, I’d be crossing this shop and rubbing every part of you till you glistened.”

And damn, if my cock didn’t stand up and hear that.

“Food before . . . anything,” I said, not trusting myself to even discuss our bodies touching or lips meeting or the feel of him pressed against me . . . or me inside him . . .

Shit, I was hard as a rock and pulsing.

Mateo’s eyes trailed down my body, landing on my now very tight jeans. A playful grin twisted his lips, but he didn’t say a word, just spun and headed toward my house.

Every step I took rubbed my throbbing cock against my jeans and skin, making it even more thrilled there was a hot Italian leading me back into my lair. I wanted to get him inside, rip his clothes off, and teach him just how hard my wood could get.

But he had Chinese food, and I had a piece to finish.

Fucking insufferable man.

Mateo had just placed his hand on the doorknob when the sound of tires on gravel drew both our attention. A small blue Toyota something-or-other pulled into my driveway. The driver fumbled with something inside the cab, then climbed out holding a bubble pack.

The guy stood a little taller than Mateo, had broad shoulders and well-defined arms poking out of a far-too-small uniform shirt.

He grinned and flicked back blond hair like a supermodel on a photo shoot.

His face was unlined and smooth, making him look like a late teen, though I knew he had to be in his early to mid-twenties.

I’d seen this guy a few times, as his daily route brought him to Shane’s place regularly.

“Morning, Jer,” I said.

The guy’s eyes brightened at my words.

“It is now.” He noticed Mateo and stared a moment before raising a hand in greeting. “I’m Jeremiah.”

Mateo mirrored his wave. “Mateo.”

“Ooh, in the mood for Italian, I see?” Jeremiah teased in my direction before realizing he might’ve just crossed a professional line. “Oh, uh, sorry. Got one for you. Can I get a signature?”

I grinned at his discomfort . . . on the inside . . . not on my face.

“Sure,” I said, grabbing the package and his tablet. One finger-signature later, Jeremiah’s fine ass was back in his car and driving away.

“What can Brown do for you, indeed,” Mateo mused as he opened the door.

I grunted and followed.

“You called him Jer. Sounds like you know him.” A tinge of jealousy hid beneath Mateo’s words. Another inner smile curled in my chest.

“Jeremiah’s been my guy for over a year. He flirts a lot, but he’s harmless. Good guy. Dumb as a box of rocks, but pretty to look at.”

“Flirty didn’t cover what I just saw. He’s into you,” Mateo said. “I can’t blame him. You’re sexy. He’s hot. You’re both young. Well, you’re relatively young.”

“Fuck you,” I said, chuckling. “Jer really is a good guy, but I don’t think he’s the dating type.

This is Atlanta, and he looks, well, like he looks.

I can’t imagine he’d want to slow his roll long enough to get to know a guy.

You know? Plus, I prefer my dates to be able to, well, talk like an adult. Jer is sweet, but—”

“So judgy,” Mateo teased. “When you describe him like that, he reminds me of you. And with arms like that, I’m surprised the men of Atlanta aren’t following him around like a line of baby ducks.”

“Right.” I nodded. “Hey . . . wait. He reminds you of me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He might be sweet with a heart of gold and be pining for his Prince Charming, his sawdust-covered Prince Charming, if I read the room right. ”

“No!” I said a little too forcefully. “No. He’s offered. I mean, not in so many words, but he’s made it pretty clear that we could, you know. He was flirty, okay, but Jer’s . . . not my type.”

Mateo began emptying the Chinese, spreading little cartons all over my table.

“And what is your type, Shane Douglas?” he asked, a wry smile parting his lips.

“Let me get cleaned up, and I’ll answer that. Just know, I’m more a man of action than words.”

Mateo glanced up, teeth flashing. “Oh, I know.”

While Mateo finished laying out lunch, I cleaned off in the bathroom and changed into a worn T-shirt I’d had for years. It was soft, fit a little loose, and smelled clean, so I figured it would do despite the hole in the left armpit.

Lunch was subdued. My hard-on had faded, and Mateo didn’t do anything overtly sexy to make it reappear.

We talked of nothing—and everything. Mateo asked question after question, never interrupting, nodding as I tried to hold back but failed.

There was no refusing the man and his deep brown eyes.

By the time the last egg roll vanished, I think I’d spoken more words than I had in the past month, and I was mentally drained.

“I love Chinese food,” Mateo said, sitting back and patting his belly .

I grunted agreement. “I need to get back to the shop. Deadline’s this week.”

There was no disappointment or surprise on Mateo’s face. He didn’t look at me with puppy dog eyes or beg for our time to continue. He simply stood, walked around the table, and planted a juicy kiss on my lips.

“The regular season kicks into gear this week, so I’ll be a little hard to nail down.”

My gaze warmed. “I know how to nail you.”

He slapped my shoulder. “I’ll text you later.”

With one last kiss that lingered so long I’d likely think about it all afternoon, Mateo strode through my den and out the door, leaving me sitting at the table and wondering how that man—how any man—could upend my day with a bag of General Tso’s chicken and Crab Rangoon.