Page 9 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

M y truck groaned to a halt like it resented being made useful, and honestly, I kind of got it.

It was Saturday in Atlanta, hot and humid as hell, and I’d already sweated through my second shirt.

To be somewhat professional, I ditched it for an old tank top I only wore when I didn’t care what people thought—which was most days.

Okay, maybe I didn’t care about appearing that professional. I was hauling furniture, for Pete’s sake.

Besides, I didn’t figure anyone would be looking at me.

It wasn’t like this delivery meant anything. It was just a sideboard. Sure, it was a solid one with good lines, smooth grain, and clean joinery. In fact, it was one of my best pieces in a while; but still, it was just a job.

I stepped down from the cab, my boots clomping against the pavement of Mateo’s driveway, and walked around to the back of the truck to check the straps again, not because I needed to, but because I needed to do something with my hands.

Then the front door squealed open. I made a mental note to offer to squirt some WD-40 on the hinges. I carried a can—along with a toolbox most craftsmen would envy—everywhere I went.

I released the strap in my hand, turned toward Mateo’s house, and promptly forgot how to breathe. Mateo stepped into the sunlight, squinting a little, one hand raised as if he’d just been hit with a stage light.

He was . . .

Holy shit.

He was beautiful . . . and not in the fake, polished way people tried to be when they wanted to make a great first impression.

He looked real, with hair slightly messy, like he’d slept in and been too lazy to fix it.

For the briefest moment, I could imagine digging my fingers into that mop of inky blackness and . . .

Shit. I had to check myself. He was a customer.

A customer wearing jeans that clung in all the right places and a T-shirt that had a PhD in “accidentally hot.”

And his eyes . . .

His eyes were this warm, syrupy brown. When they locked on me, his whole expression froze. He blinked a few times, so fast I thought his brain might be glitching. It might’ve been funny if I hadn’t been worried the guy was about to have a stroke.

And then—he stumbled.

Literally, he just . . . tripped a little.

He caught himself before losing his balance, then did that fast-blinking thing again, like he couldn’t quite compute what he was seeing. For a second, I thought maybe I had something on my face or head.

“You all right?” I asked, my voice rougher than I meant it to be.

He blinked again. Three times. Damn, he was a fast blinker.

“What? Yeah. No. Yes. Sorry. Sun. In my eyes. I—uh—hi.”

Jesus Christ.

That voice.

I’d forgotten he had an accent. I mean, his name was Mateo Ricci, which in any good mystery would be considered “a clue,” but still . . .

It was soft and rich and a little too fast, like a melody I didn’t know the lyrics to.

Some of the words clipped together in a way that made me feel like I was hearing them underwater—and I still wanted to hear them again.

Over and over. It wasn’t just an accent; it was the sound a smooth hand makes when it caresses tender skin.

Good God, what was I thinking?

Maybe I’d just blocked it out so I could function like a human being.

“Hi,” I managed.

Which—great. Cool. I was definitely not monosyllabic and flustered, definitely not already sweating more than the sun warranted . . . through a tank top that was suddenly very heavy and felt skimpy beneath his gaze.

Mateo smiled, and it hit me like a shot to the chest.

“Is, uh, that the piece?” he asked, waving a hand toward the truck, his accent curling around the sentence like it had nowhere better to be.

My brain had to rewind and play it twice.

I pointed toward the bed. “Yeah. Wrapped it up tight. Just need to unload.”

“Right. Yes. Good. That’s . . . excellent.” He paused, then tilted his head, his expression crinkling a little. “You look hot.”

I choked on a laugh because that’s what reasonable adult men do when they’re called hot, isn’t it?

Mateo reached up and ran fingers through his hair, and I swear I heard background music from a Pert commercial playing in the distance. The fucking camera even shifted to slow-mo to emphasize his tanned skin and toned arms .

Was I hot? Who knew? But I was definitely getting overheated.

“I mean . . . it’s hot out here, and you are soaking through your shirt.”

Oh, shit. He meant I was literally hot, not “smokin’ hot.” My chest fell a bit at that realization . . . then I felt silly for caring if my customer thought I was hot or not.

I mirrored his fingers-through-the-hair thing, and enjoyed how his eyes drank in the motion.

Maybe . . .

“Hot day,” he said. “Don’t want you to pass out under a sofa.”

“It’s a sideboard,” I said, a little too sharp, like I was correcting a quiz.

He blinked.

I grimaced. “Sorry. That was—I’m just—do you want water? I mean, do you have water? I could use some . . . a drink. You know . . . ’cause I’m hot . . . I mean, it’s hot. The weather . . . it’s hot . . . like you said.”

By the time I got whatever the hell that was out of my mouth, Mateo was grinning, and fuck me if he didn’t have the whitest, straightest teeth ever grown in a man’s mouth. I had to remind myself not to stare lest the glare from the sun made me see spots.

“Sure,” he said. “ Be right back.”

He spun around and disappeared so fast you’d think he’d just remembered he’d left something in the oven. I watched him go, then cursed under my breath and turned back to the truck.

Get it together, Shane.

I was a grown man, not a teenager with a crush.

So what if he was stupidly handsome?

Who cared if his voice made my knees feel like they’d forgotten their job?

I was here to drop off a piece of furniture, and then I was leaving.

It was simple as that. Clean. Professional.

So why the hell was I adjusting my shirt?

He took so long inside I was halfway convinced he’d bolted out the back door to escape the awkward tension when the screen creaked open again and Mateo reappeared, holding a glass of ice water in both hands like it was a peace offering to the gods.

“Sorry,” he said, handing it over. “I had to wash a glass. With tryouts keeping me at school late, the house has gotten a little out of control.”

I took the glass with a nod, careful not to let my fingers brush his. It was real glass, cold and beaded with sweat, like everything else today.

“Thanks,” I said, and lifted it to my lips.

The water was ice-cold—shockingly good. I mean, it was water, but sometimes, on a hot day, water tasted better than it should. Mateo’s water was perfection.

I drained half the glass in three gulps before my hand shifted wrong and the rest dumped straight down the front of me.

I jumped and squealed—yes, I squealed — like a teenage girl who’d just been poked in the ribs.

I froze as the cold hit—sharp, rude, soaking through the front of my shirt in one splash that clung to skin and fabric alike.

My tank top was already thin from age. Now it was glued to my chest, outlining every inch of me like a crime scene.

The glass flew out of my hand as ice found its way into the front of my jeans. That sent me into a not-so-happy dance as I struggled to get the ice to fall down a leg rather than lodge itself into my crotch—the crotch that hadn’t seen underwear in decades.

I failed.

Ice clung to my balls with bitter, angry, frigid fingers.

My hand shot south so fast, I forgot Mateo was watching.

He’d somehow managed to catch the glass I’d flung and was gaping as my hand disappeared down the front of my pants, reappearing a moment later with the offending ice—now smaller—squishing for freedom between two fingers.

It fell to the ground before I could lift it in victory .

Perfect.

Just perfect.

“So, drink often?” Mateo smirked.

I exhaled through my nose and resisted the urge to curse out loud. When I glanced back up, Mateo was staring at my stomach, which was now as exposed as if I’d ripped my shirt off like a stripper readying to mount his pole.

His mouth was parted, eyes fixed like he couldn’t decide whether to hand me a towel or throw himself into traffic.

I cleared my throat.

His gaze jerked upward, eyes widening, ears going red.

“Sorry,” he blurted. “That was—sorry, that looked cold.”

“It was . . . still is,” I said flatly, trying not to react to the way his voice cracked.

I reached down, gripped my tank top in both hands, and wrung it out like a dish towel.

Only after it hung limply again did I realize two things: first, I’d wrinkled it in ways that might never be repaired; and second, Mateo’s eyes had snapped to my abs the moment I’d lifted my shirt.

His expression had morphed into that of a man who was dying of thirst, and he’d just seen his first hint of an oasis.

Fine, I had great abs. It was genetics. I think I was born with them.

Still, guys lost their shit over them, and, in this case, a very sexy Italian was in the process of shitting . . . losing . . . whatever . . . right in front of me.

This is just a delivery , I reminded myself, clearing my throat. “Let’s get this inside,” I said while reaching up and tugging the blanket off the piece.

The wood caught the sunlight. It was deep brown and smooth, like it had just been cut from the tree and polished by time. Mateo stepped up beside me, his eyes flicking to the sideboard—and then, not-so-subtly, back to my chest.

He was trying to be slick about it.

But he was not slick.

We unwrapped the last of the protective foam, then I motioned toward the legs.

“I’ll take the back,” I said. “You steer.”

He nodded and moved to the front, fingers brushing the edge like it was a museum piece. His hands looked smaller than mine, but sure. Steady. “We’re going in and to the right. The den is just inside the entrance.”

We lifted it in one smooth motion.