Page 49 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

M y house smelled like pine, coffee, and whatever Mateo had just spritzed on himself in the bathroom, something citrusy and warm—and dangerous, because every time he walked past me, I forgot what I was doing.

The last few months had crept up on me, a ninja—or pack of them, whatever you called a group of ninjas—creeping around my house and heart and, damn it, whole life. They’d infiltrated my last defenses, lowered my walls, and thrown me, head-first, into the arms of my Italian stallion.

One minute, I was delivering a sideboard to a too-handsome basketball coach with an accent that fried my brain.

Next thing I knew, his shoes lay by my door, his toothbrush was in my bathroom—in the same cup as mine—and my fridge contained actual vegetables.

I’d even built a wine rack covered in carved vines and grapes that now held court on the far wall of my kitchen.

It took Mateo no time to fill it, giving the room an even deeper old-world vibe.

The funny thing was I still wasn’t sure how any of that happened.

And now?

Hell, if a day went by without a message from Mateo—or hearing him ramble about his kids or the latest team stats—I felt . . . twitchy . . . like the house was too quiet again.

And the scariest part was how much I liked having him there, in my house, filling my personal space with his smile and twinkling eyes and . . .

I wanted him with me . . . always with me.

The realization was a Mack truck to my chest.

I’d never wanted—or needed—anyone. At least, I hadn’t since I was old enough to cook for myself and sneak out the back door of my parents’ house. I was good alone, on my own, with no one to mess up my mojo or interrupt a working session or bother me with a stream of mindless errands or tasks.

Until Mateo.

How could one man change everything? How was that even possible?

I wanted to see him all the time, to feel him near me, to know he was sitting beside me even when our shoulders or legs or toes weren’t touching (which was rare, because some part of us was always touching).

I wanted to hear him singing off-key in my kitchen while making espresso, wanted to see his Chia Pet hair sticking up in every direction in the mornings, because the man fought pillowcases in his sleep.

Hell, I caught myself grinning the day before when I found one of his socks—just one—tucked inside my shop rag bin. How it got there, I had no idea, but the sight of it had me laughing like an idiot.

Mateo filled up space I hadn’t even known was empty.

But before he showed up, I’d only filled that space with sawdust and shop noise.

With routine.

With the quiet of being alone.

Now? The quiet wasn’t empty anymore.

Or quiet.

Or much personal space, really.

It belonged to both of us—all of it—even the personal space.

We hadn’t labeled ourselves or made any grand public declarations, but we both knew.

We were together. We were a couple. At least, we were dating, and neither of us wanted to see anyone else until we figured out what the hell we were becoming, what we were growing into.

And that scared the shit out of me . . . almost as much as how Mateo fit in the crook between my chin and chest.

I adjusted the sleeves on one of my halfway-decent button-downs.

It still felt weird—dressing up—but Mateo had insisted.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he’d said, voice all bright and bossy.

“You can’t go to Mrs. H’s dressed like Paul Bunyan and expect to come out alive.

Trust me on this. Mrs. H makes Sisi look like a kitten. ”

“That’s not encouraging.”

An espresso-laden chuckle that sounded more like a cartoon villain’s laugh than that of my unofficial boyfriend was all the response he offered.

I glanced at the clock. It was almost time to leave.

The last thing we wanted was to be the final couple to arrive.

The gang would be unbearable, but Mrs. H would make us wish we were celebrating on another planet.

I’d only had one encounter with the woman in her lair, and Mateo claimed that had been a “tame” experience.

I was terrified of what more the woman could dish out—both figuratively and literally.

I never got nervous. It wasn’t in my DNA. Others were intimidated by my size or stare or lack of banter.

Why, then, was there a low buzz just beneath my skin? Why was my mind spinning in four directions, unable to settle on one? Why had I just adjusted my collar for the sixth time? On a button-down that didn’t move?

The upcoming evening felt like a family reunion on steroids, one in which the aforementioned family chooses to eat the guests alive, leaving behind only scraps of flannel and gore as evidence of their heinous crime.

Mateo and I had hung out with various members of his little family, mostly in pairs or small groups, but I’d never been around the whole crew gathered under one roof.

This was either going to be the best night of my life or an utter shambles that made me rethink all the life choices that led up to those moments.

“I swear,” I muttered, buttoning the last cuff, “if she serves us some Scottish roadkill stew again—”

“Relax.” Mateo came out of the bathroom, grinning, damn near glowing in a soft red sweater that clung in all the right places. “Everyone’s bringing backup food. You won’t starve.”

“Good, ’cause if dinner starts moving on the plate, I’m not responsible for what happens next. I will protect our family.”

Oh, shit. Had I just called us a family?

Mateo didn’t seem to catch it.

He laughed, grabbing a covered dish from the counter. “You’ll be fine. They love you.”

“ You love me. They tolerate me. ”

He shot me a wink. “That’s more than enough.”

I wanted to reach out and grab Mateo around the waist, pull his tight body into mine, and rip that red sweater off his sexy skin.

The look he gave me said he wished I could do it, too, but before I could say something dumb—like how hearing him say “love” sent my chest sideways—headlights swept across the windows.

A second later, a car door slammed.

“Expecting someone?” Mateo asked.

I frowned. “Nope.”

I opened the front door just as Jeremiah—my delivery guy—jogged up the steps, his breath fogging in the cold. Despite the early-winter chill, the boy wore his tight-fitting polo shirt, the one that showed just how far his biceps could bulge and how cold his nipples really were.

And they were freezin’.

He grinned. “’Sup, mountain man.”

“Jeremiah. You lost?”

“Package.” He held up a slim box, eyes twinkling. “Last-minute Christmas miracle.”

I took it, arching a brow. “You’re working tonight?”

He shrugged. “Pays extra.” His grin faltered just a little. “And it’s not like I had other plans. My mom lives out west, little bro is in New York with his boyfriend. It’s just me and Oscar.”

“Oscar?”

He reached up and shoved blond hair out of his eyes. I couldn’t remember ever seeing the guy with a fresh haircut.

“My weenie dog.”

“Ah,” I said. “Every man needs a solid weenie.”

Jeremiah chuckled. “Damn straight.”

Before Jeremiah could turn and stride away, Mateo stepped up behind me, his voice warm. “You don’t have anywhere to be on Christmas Eve?”

Jeremiah hesitated, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “Nah. It’s all good . . . whatever.”

Mateo wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his chin on my shoulder. I didn’t need him to speak to know what he was thinking.

I grinned and whispered, “Go on. I know you want to.”

“You’re coming with us,” he said.

Jeremiah blinked and crossed his arms, which was unfair given how the motion made his biceps turn into boulders. I wondered how his shirts survived the constant pressure.

“I’m what?”

Mateo was already grabbing his coat. “It’s a big dinner. The whole gang’s going to Mrs. H’s. You’re family now—you deliver half Shane’s life. ”

“Mrs. H?” Jeremiah’s head cocked. “You sure? I don’t wanna crash.”

“You’re not crashing. You’re my reinforcements.” I clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Besides, it’ll be better than eating frozen pizza alone.”

“How’d you know I had leftover pizza on the menu tonight?” He grinned, his eyes a little brighter. “Well . . . if you’re twisting my arm. You were my last stop anyway.”

“Consider your arm twisted,” Mateo said. “Great. Let’s go.”

“Hang on,” I said, holding up a palm. “He can’t show up in his work shirt. They’ll give him shit for not being dressed for the holiday, then give us shit for showing off his arms. Matty will be relentless.”

“And Sisi would be unchained,” Mateo agreed. “Come in. Let us find you a shirt. There’s got to be something that’ll fit and look like Santa threw up on it. All Shane owns is flannel.”

Jeremiah grunted. “I did notice that.”

“Hey!” I protested.

Jeremiah held up both palms. “Don’t shoot. You look good in old-people-lost-in-the-woods clothes. It suits you.”

“Oh, he’s going to fit in just fine,” Mateo said through a laugh.

Once Jeremiah was fitted in a Mateo-approved flannel that only hugged his arms and chest a bit less than his work shirt, we loaded up and headed out.

Nerves or not, one thing was clear:

This was what the holidays were supposed to feel like.