Page 51 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

No one else moved.

Omar blinked. “Is it . . . meant to be that color? Or that, um, lack of color?”

“Aye!” Mrs. H beamed. “Proper dish for keeping a brood alive through a long winter.”

Sisi leaned toward Jeremiah, stage-whispering, “Translation: no one’s eaten this since the plague.”

Jeremiah failed to stifle a laugh.

Mrs. H’s raptor’s gaze snapped to him. “You, new boy. I don’t care how hot ya are or how big your tits may be, you eat my cookin’ or I’ll make more. Got it?”

Jeremiah looked like a Catholic school kid, head bowed before a ruthless nun whose ruler twitched in her hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. H cackled. “Hear that, boys? He called me ma’am. Right gentlemanly of the lad. Ya’ll should learn from that one, tits and all.”

Shane remained stoic—but I felt his thigh press against mine under the table, a subtle squeeze, our silent communication.

That’s when I remembered we’d brought backup food, thank God.

Mike broke the silence. “So, um, what’s this beautiful dish called?”

Mrs. H straightened. “Fitchy-meat.”

Omar let out a strangled noise. “You’re joking.”

“Not a bit,” she said proudly. “It’s an old dish with layers of seasoned meats in aspic.”

Shane leaned in and whispered, “Is it an old recipe, or is that actual dish old?”

I had to cover my mouth.

Dane called from the kids’ table, “Can confirm—the meat’s still moving.”

“I think it just flicked me the bird,” Matty added.

“It’s flopping more than Dane in his fireman outfit.” Sisi beamed.

Laughter erupted.

Jeremiah mouthed, “Help me,” his eyes wide.

And with that, Mrs. H raised her spoon like a battle cry. “Dig in, loves. No one leaves hungry.”

“This isn’t . . . terrible,” I heard Dane mutter to Patrick. “Once you get past the wiggly gel around the meat, the actual stuff inside is kind of good.”

“I bet the Pizza Shack is still delivering,” was his only reply.

The meal ambled forward, with more champagne and wine going down than Scottish meat, the gang getting drunker with each passing moment. Even Jeremiah surrendered to the season, a couple of tall flutes of champagne painting a glossy sheen to his eyes and planting an adorable grin on his face.

Mrs. H told stories about Christmases past, none of which occurred in Scotland because, honestly, she wasn’t from there and had never even visited.

Still, she regaled us with tales of men and women who celebrated their holiday cheer with odd traditions and highland songs.

When she tried to sing one, a chorus of groans drowned her out, and Sisi barked, “Just sing YMCA, do the hand motions, and be done with this.”

Mrs. H, never one to miss a beat, threw her hands in the air, making the biggest Y the old woman’s arms could form. Matty jumped to his feet and formed an M beside her.

“Jeremiah, are you gay or what? We need a C, stat.”

Our new recruit blinked a few times before stumbling to his feet and tossing his arms out to form his letter.

By the time Omar finished the song with his A, both the adult and kids’ tables were a riot of off-key notes and worse hand gestures.

“That might be the least Christmas thing I’ve ever seen,” Shane said, not realizing he’d spoken loud enough for everyone to hear.

Sisi homed in. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Brick Wall, any song that makes people laugh and feel good is a holiday song. If you’re not careful, we’ll break out in a rendition of the Gay National Anthem right here, right now. ”

Jeremiah—sweet, unsuspecting Jeremiah—fell into the bear pit.

“Gay National Anthem? I didn’t know we had an anthem.”

Sisi gasped. Omar, nearby, mirrored her pearl-clutching gesture. Matty feigned a fainting spell.

“What?” Jeremiah was baffled.

“Class!” Sisi clinked a fork on the nearest glass she could reach. “Class, attention. We have a student who needs a lesson. In the key of G now, please.”

One off-key chorus of “It’s Raining Men” later, dinner had lost all semblance of order or form, Mrs. H was howling from the kitchen, and even Shane’s eyes were filled with tears of drunken laughter.

When Sisi reached the line that included “absolutely soaking wet,” she grabbed a water glass off the table and threw its contents all over Jeremiah.

He leaped up, his chair tumbling behind him.

Shane reached out to brace him.

Mrs. H squealed and clapped her hands.

And poor Jeremiah stood and stared as water rolled off his borrowed flannel.

A wolf sensing fear and weakness, Sisi began the chant, “Take it off! Take it off! Take it off!”

When Omar and Matty joined in, I knew the snowball was rolling downhill. By the time Mrs. H joined the cheers, Jeremiah had no choice but to begin to unbutton his shirt.

Squeals erupted from the women—and Matty.

When he reached the bottom button, and most of his chest was visible through the now-parted fabric, one could’ve heard a pin drop. It felt as though all of Gay America held its collective breath for the unveiling of what we all knew would be Santa’s glorious gift this Christmas.

And when he tossed aside the shirt, angels and elves joined and sang hymns of the season—and more of “It’s Raining Men.

” Jeremiah was even more stunning unveiled than we’d imagined.

Hell, I’d seen him in his work shirt, the one that looked like his muscles tortured it for fun, and I still wasn’t prepared for the glory that was his naked torso.

“Holy shit. We have Shane, Dane, and now Jeremiah,” Omar muttered.

“It’s our very own Magic Mike show,” Mrs. H added.

Sisi’s eyes roamed the table, landing on Shane, then Dane.

“Not a chance,” Shane said, a preemptive rejection of the chants he knew were bubbling behind her eyes.

She winked and chanted anyway.

Dane stripped quickly. It took a few minutes, but Shane reluctantly peeled off his flannel and put everyone else to shame, his muscles gleaming in the candlelight.

As hot as Dane and Jeremiah were, Shane was a beast among men, a statue gifted by the gods themselves so men might gawk and know their glory.

And he was mine.

I grinned, watching their reactions, especially Matty’s. He nearly passed out for real when Shane’s nipples appeared. I couldn’t blame him. It’s how I felt every time he undressed before me. Damn, I was a lucky guy.

“More drinks!” Sisi declared, tearing herself away from the half-naked men to lead a conga line into the kitchen for refills.

That’s when I noticed Mike and Elliot staring at each other. Mike wasn’t gawking at Elliot’s pecs or naked abs. No, he was staring into his eyes, as though the rest of the world around them had vanished. It felt as though we’d all barged in on a very private moment between the two men.

“One year ago,” Mike whispered. I was so fixated on the pair that I could easily read his lips.

Elliot’s smile widened, and I could feel the love flowing between them.

“What’s with those two?” Shane whispered in my ear, his breath hot.

“A year ago, over a meal not too different from the one we just wrecked, Elliot surprised us all—specially Mike—by dropping to one knee and proposing.”

“Holy shit,” Shane muttered.

I nodded. “Elliot’s a lot like you. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it’s something. That moment was one of the most romantic, emotional scenes I’ve ever witnessed.”

Shane’s arms wrapped around me, and I could feel the warmth of his bare chest press against me from behind. When he pressed a kiss to my neck, Sisi noticed us.

“Oh, boy,” she said, motioning to Matty and Omar. “Come here, guys. I think we have a holiday tradition about to repeat itself.”

“What tradition?” Jeremiah asked.

Sisi ran fingers down his bare chest, eliciting a satisfied grin. “Baby boy, we had a marriage proposal at this very table last year. Looking at Shane and Mateo, it looks like—”

“Sisi! No! We haven’t even said we’re boyfriends yet. We’re not taking that plunge.”

Sisi cocked a brow, but not at me. She aimed her gaze directly at Shane.

“Is this true? Are you just hooking up? What are your intentions with our boy, Shane?” Her glare was withering.

“Sisi,” Mrs. H whispered, a weathered hand landing on Sisi’s arm.

She shrugged it off. “Well?”

Shane glanced at me, then back to the group. Far too many eyes blinked back in anticipation.

“Mateo is mine,” Shane declared.

No one spoke.

Even Matty’s toe-tapping stilled.

Shane squeezed me tighter into him, as if to underscore his point.

When he didn’t offer any more, Sisi clapped her hands twice and said, “Well, that clears nothing up. Who wants dessert?”