Page 50 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

M rs. H’s house was already glowing by the time we pulled up. Every window flickered with light from candles dancing on the inside sill, a massive wreath crowned the door, and a cheerful (and slightly crooked) inflatable Santa bounced on the porch like it was halfway through a bender.

“Brace yourselves, boys,” I said, grinning as I glanced at Shane and Jeremiah. “This is not a house for the faint of heart.”

Jeremiah chuckled from the back seat. “Are you sure I should be here? I can Uber—”

“Too late,” Shane said, calm as ever. “You’re family now, which means you’re fucked—and not in the tingly way, either.”

I caught the twitch of a smile on Jeremiah’s face before we piled out and headed up the walk, arms full of dishes and bottles.

The moment we crossed the threshold, the smell hit us—roast meat, some kind of baked thing that may or may not have involved root vegetables, and an unmistakable hint of whatever Scottish concoction Mrs. H was trying to kill us with.

From the den came raucous laughter.

“Sounds like they’ve started without us,” I muttered.

We barely made it past the coatrack before Sisi’s voice rang out.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in!”

“I don’t do pussies,” Shane said, deadpanned as ever.

Sisi’s entire face froze, then everyone in earshot erupted, some doubling over.

Matty was sprawled on the couch like a cat in a sunbeam, one leg tucked under him, the other kicked out and bouncing to some inner rhythm.

And of course , he was dressed to be seen.

A glittering gold cardigan hung off his shoulders, draped over a skin-tight black mesh shirt that left nothing to the imagination.

Red velvet pants hugged his hips like a second skin, ending in a pair of pointed patent leather boots that looked ready for the runway—or a witch’s coven meeting.

I wasn’t sure which. Around his neck hung a thick chain with a charm shaped like a tiny stiletto heel, and his nails were painted alternating black and red.

Perhaps most arresting, his lashes looked like they could fan a small forest fire.

Matty caught me looking and winked. “You like? I was going for gay Christmas fairy , but if you think it’s too subtle, I can add antlers.”

Sisi cackled from beside him.

And yeah, I loved these people, chaos and all.

The second Sisi’s eyes landed on Jeremiah, she gasped. Matty echoed with a gasp of his own.

Then Sisi squealed and hopped to her feet, drink splashing dangerously in her wineglass. “Mateo! Shane! You picked up a third before you’ve even made yourselves official? That’s a bold move, boys, a bold move.”

Jeremiah damn near choked. “I—what—no—I’m just—”

“Sisi! No, this is Jeremiah. He was alone! We invited him! It’s not—”

“Oh, I see,” she purred, twirling toward Jeremiah. “Found you a loner who wouldn’t be missed? That’s some classic serial killer shit. You watch a lot of TV, Mateo Ricci, far too much. I bet you lured him in with baked goods and holiday cheer, hmm?”

Jeremiah turned bright red and hid behind Shane and the dish of roasted vegetables he was carrying.

“You’re impossible.” I felt my own face heating. “Jeremiah is Shane’s delivery guy. ”

“Oh, a workplace romance. I love that trope!” Sisi tittered.

Through it all, Shane remained completely unflappable, standing tall and calm with his dish in one hand, the very picture of stoic amusement.

Mrs. H bustled in from the kitchen, wooden spoon waving faster than Harry Potter’s wand. “What’s all this screeching? Oh! You boys brought a stray. Lovely. Lord knows these gatherings need more eye candy.”

She drank in a long look. “And damn-fucking-nation, that boy is fine. What I want for Christmas is his shirt on the floor, ya hear me?”

Jeremiah made a helpless noise.

Sisi had to set her glass down as her howls quickly morphed into a pee-pee dance I feared might bubble over.

Mike rose and stood behind Sisi. “Careful, Jeremiah. They’ll have you naked save for an apron before dessert.”

The room roared.

I was about to intervene, to rescue poor Jeremiah, when Omar, from his perch on the arm of the couch, finally spoke, his cool, British drawl sharp as ever.

“Well,” he said with a lazy smile, eyes flicking over Jeremiah’s shoulders and chest, “with arms like those, someone needs to mount his Everest. ”

Mrs. H dropped her spoon and began snorting uncontrollably, the words “mount his Everest” sneaking out when she came up for air.

I dropped my face into my hands and groaned, “We will never live this down.”

Shane’s voice, low and dry, cut through beside me. “Speak for yourself. I’m enjoying the hell out of this, and it’s just getting started.”

And damn it—when I peeked through my fingers, the tiny smirk on his face nearly melted me on the spot.

“All right.” Mrs. H gathered herself. “Let the poor boy get into the door. You two, put your food in the kitchen and make yourselves a drink. Jeremiah, bathroom’s down that hall. Before this night’s over, you’ll either need to pee or flee. The loo is good for both.”

Shane followed Mrs. H into the kitchen, as ordered, while Sisi snaked her arm in Jeremiah’s and led him to the couch. I took up residence in the lounger across the coffee table from the couch.

Movement in the entrance to the hallway caught my eye as the third in our little trio of large, muscular men filled the opening that led to back of the house.

He’d missed the grand entrance and subsequent teasing because—judging by his mildly damp hair and bewildered expression—he’d been in the bathroom the entire time.

He paused just inside the den, taking in the sight of Sisi mid-cackle, Jeremiah blushing like a human tomato, and Matty glittering like a Christmas disco ball.

Elliot’s brow ticked up half a centimeter. “I leave the room for five minutes . . .”

His voice was dry and low—classic Elliot—and somehow that made Sisi laugh harder.

“Elliot, darling!” she cried, holding up her drink in greeting. “You’ve missed the scandal! Mateo and Shane brought a third!”

Elliot’s gaze flicked to Jeremiah—who looked ready to sink through the floor—and then to where I sat dreaming of the magic of invisibility.

He gave a single slow blink and said, “Efficient.”

That was all.

I snorted into my sleeve.

Before anyone could pile more onto poor Jeremiah, the front door swung open and the cold whooshed in—followed by Dane and Patrick, both grinning and each carrying a bottle of champagne.

The room damn near exploded . . .

Because Dane was wearing an ugly sweater so heinously fantastic I almost choked. Santa, ripped and shirtless, with suspenders, tight red pants, and an ax slung over one shoulder—fireman fantasy Santa.

Next to him, Patrick rocked a matching sweater featuring a half-naked Santa posing as a naughty teacher: glasses perched on the tip of his nose and a ruler in one hand about to spank an unsuspecting football player’s butt.

Dane waggled his brows as they entered. “Are we late to the debauchery?”

Patrick smirked. “Or perfectly timed?”

Sisi clapped like a deranged seal. “OMG! I want Santa’s next spanking!”

“Santa’s a myth. You’ll have to settle for me. Bend over, baby,” Dane rumbled, earning another round of raucous laughter and taunts.

Jeremiah, still wide-eyed, leaned across the coffee table and whispered to me, “Am I at the right party?”

“Oh, you definitely are.” I grinned. “Just remember to buckle up and keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.”

“The car?” His face scrunched up in the most adorable way. “It’s outside—”

“Not the actual car, silly. I meant—”

Shane, bless him, chose that exact moment to return, rumbling a soft chuckle and leaning down to murmur, “Told you this crew was something.”

“Where is Stevie?” Jeremiah asked. “At least she would take some of the heat off me. ”

I shook my head. “Not a chance. She’d be more likely to pile on.”

Jeremiah sat back, his shell-shocked expression reminding me of Tom Hanks in Saving Private Ryan —but without all the mortars and war.

Mrs. H let us chatter, drink, and tease for a few more minutes before sweeping into the den, wooden spoon in hand like a queen with her scepter.

“All right, you pack of queer hyenas!” she barked, her faux Scottish brogue thickening with amusement. “Get your arses in the kitchen. Food’s on!”

There were groans and chuckles as everyone scrambled upright.

The kitchen table was barely big enough for six on a good day, but somehow—after much shuffling and a great deal of Sisi ordering everyone around—we managed to wedge in eight.

I ended up between Shane and Omar, which I couldn’t complain about.

Jeremiah, poor kid, had no chance.

“Next to me, love,” Sisi declared, patting the chair beside her. “Or I can sit on your lap. It’s your choice. I promise not to grind or bounce too much.”

“Until dessert when she turns into a right vixen,” Omar jabbed.

Jeremiah’s entire face went crimson. “Uh—I think the chair’s good. Just me. In that chair, right there, without any grinding or . . . whatever.”

Mike snorted. “Wise man.”

Meanwhile, Dane and Patrick—who’d arrived with all the confidence of men wearing pornographic Christmas jumpers—were banished to the folding card table in the corner. Patrick eyed the lone Uno card forever fused to the padded top. “Charming.”

Dane grinned. “Remind me to bring cleaner next year.”

“And takeout Chinese,” I whispered, leaning back their way.

Patrick grinned. Dane folded his arms over naughty Santa’s very happy candy cane.

Mrs. H returned a moment later.

And the room fell silent.

On a massive serving platter sat what could only be described as a jellied loaf. It was some color of mottled gray, possibly gunmetal or smeared snot, quivering slightly and dotted with . . . raisins? No—currants, maybe? Slices of hard-boiled egg were layered inside like geological strata.

“This,” Mrs. H declared proudly, “is a meat terrine, my great aunt’s recipe. If we were in Scotland right now—”

“We’d be headed to a pub!” Matty squawked.

Mrs. H slapped his shoulder.