Page 8 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

I was raised to believe that brunch was supposed to be a classy affair.

That’s also what Sisi had claimed when she made the reservation and demanded we all wear something that didn’t have holes in it, which I supposed counted as classy for two teachers, a lineman, and a nurse.

To further prove our classiness, we ordered a round of mimosas before our butts had even touched the seats.

Then the waiter called Sisi “ma’am,” and any hint of class flew out the window.

“Ma’am?” Sisi hissed, eyes wide, as if he’d accused her of clubbing baby seals. “Did you just fucking ‘ma’am’ me, boy?” she asked the now-cowering guy who was probably in college but looked like his balls had yet to drop.

Mike flinched .

Elliot picked up his menu and held it up like a shield.

And I—I slid my drink to the center of the table like a peace offering.

To his credit, the waiter apologized.

To her credit—and by some blessing of ancient Viking gods—Sisi accepted.

Sort of.

“If you bring me poached eggs and don’t call me ma’am again,” she said, “we’ll all walk out of here alive.”

And just like that, brunch was back on track.

The food was delicious, the drinks were better, and Sisi’s wit was cranked up to “murderous sparkle,” which meant she was working her way through judging those on the patio like a shark in red lipstick.

“I swear to God,” she said, slicing into her eggs Benedict like she was disarming a bomb with a meat cleaver, “if I have to hear another girl in a straw hat talk about her candle business and how ‘healing’ it is, I’m taking this damn mimosa back to the ER and injecting it into my veins.”

“Wouldn’t that be arteries?” Elliot asked, perking up.

Sisi’s eyes locked onto our burly lineman and narrowed. I was fairly certain a World War II era air raid siren went off in some distant city.

“Does it matter?” I asked. “As long as it gets into the bloodstream, life is better, right?”

Mike raised his glass. “To citrus-based alcoholism and the nurses who enable it.”

Sisi glared a moment, then followed the crowd and raised her glass.

We all clinked and drank, laughing like we never had to return to real life.

Brunch was warm and easy and golden in the way only lazy, late-Saturday-morning brunches could be—when no one rushed, the food kept coming, and the company was good enough to make your stomach hurt from laughing.

Then my phone buzzed, its vibration amplified by the wood of the table.

I ignored it at first. Brunch was sacred, even if the entire gang couldn’t attend every week. In fact, it was so sacred that Sisi once took mine and tossed it in a pitcher of sangria because I checked an email during dessert.

But then it buzzed again.

Twice in a row.

A little flutter crept into my chest—half curiosity, half dread—so I slid the phone out and tilted it under the table.

Flannel Daddy: Hey. It’s Shane. Sideboard’s done. I didn’t have anything else today, so a buddy helped me load it. I can head your way if you send me your address, save you a trip to the boonies.

As I stared at the screen, my heart did something weird and undignified.

Sisi, without looking up from her plate, asked, “Who’s texting you and making your face do that thing?”

“What thing? I’m not doing a thing. My face is fine. Steady even. No thing here.”

Mike snickered. Elliot sat back and crossed his arms.

Sisi looked up.

“Danger, Will Robinson!” echoed in my head.

“Don’t lie to me, Mateo Ricci. I am not fooled by that sexy accent and coiffed hair,” Sisi growled. I wasn’t sure if it had been a compliment or a slap. “You’re doing that tight-lipped I’m-trying-not-to-smile-like-a-virgin-holding-his-first-dick face.”

Mike, reaching for his mimosa, yanked his hand back and smothered a laugh.

Fucking Elliot doubled over with deep, rumbling, aching howls pouring out of him.

I set my phone on the table, screen down like it was classified and the FBI was at the next table.

Elliot sucked in a breath and arched one brow. “Ooooh. Is this the furniture guy? The one with the arms and the scowl that could make Sisi look happy?”

“I’m fucking giddy,” Sisi snarled, making Elliot double over again.

“I never said anything about his arms,” I muttered.

“You didn’t have to,” Mike said. “Your face talked about his arms for a full five minutes.”

“Ten,” Elliot corrected. “There was a gesture involved. Like this.” He mimed flexing in slow motion.

Sisi sipped her mimosa as if it was tea. “Didn’t realize sideboards came with biceps and brooding. Furniture’s really stepped up its game.”

“He was just being professional,” I said, pushing a piece of toast around my plate.

Mike grinned. “Professional with forearms that say ‘I fix things with my hands and also make a mean chili.’”

“I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” Sisi said. “Now text back or I’m doing it for you. I’ll write, ‘Thanks, Daddy, can’t wait to sit on your sideboard.’”

Mike choked on his drink.

“What?” Sisi turned toward him .

“You’re going to die when you see his name in Mateo’s phone,” Mike sputtered.

Sisi’s hand was an adder, snapping out faster than my eye could see. Before I knew what was happening, she was staring at my screen, tears leaking out of her eyes.

“Flannel Daddy? Seriously? And you’re denying—”

“I didn’t name him that!” I protested loud enough to turn heads at nearby tables. I mouthed an apology as I sank into my chair. “Mike did that. I just . . . haven’t changed it.”

Sisi set the phone down and wiped her eyes with her napkin.

I slapped a hand over my phone, scooting away from her as quickly as I could without scratching the screen. “Okay, okay! I’ll text him back!”

My fingers hovered over the screen, then I typed:

Me: Thanks. I’m at brunch with friends.

Then I backspaced until the screen was blank. I didn’t want to sound like an uppity queen. So I typed:

Me: Thanks. I can’t wait to see it.

I deleted that, too. I sounded eager. I shouldn’t sound eager.

Mike sighed and slid my phone out of reach. “You are crafting a reply as if it’s a marriage proposal.”

“Because he’s hot and intimidating and super serious and probably doesn’t even own a TV,” I hissed.

Elliot leaned in. “And that’s . . . bad?”

“It’s terrifying!”

Mike shook his head and grinned. “Just say thanks and ask what time.”

“Like a human adult,” Sisi added, not looking up. “Not a Regency-era maiden writing a letter to her secret lover.”

Damn it. They were right. I was being an idiot. This was a furniture delivery, not family planning. I typed:

Me: That’s great. I should be home in an hour. Does that work?

The others stared at me as if I was a small animal who might dart back into the woods at any minute. And fuck if I didn’t feel that way, too.

“There,” I said, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “Done. Crisis averted.”

“Can’t wait to see how you handle your woodworker,” Mike said, grinning. “Please tell me you’re going to flirt this time.”

“No one’s handling anything,” I muttered.

“Except the massive piece of wood he’s packing . . . I mean . . . hauling . . . or carrying. How does one say such a thing about his wood?” Sisi clinked her glass against mine. “Whatever, at least fall into his arms. Make all this count.”

I groaned, downed my freshly refilled mimosa, and tried not to picture a stoic man with massive arms wearing tight jeans packing huge wood . . . carrying wood . . . damn it . . . carrying my sideboard.