Page 101 of The Lineman

“Seriously, you need me to call the fire department?” he teased.

“Joke’s on you,” I said, grabbing the extinguisher. “I’ve already memorized their number.”

Elliot was still laughing when I aimed the extinguisher at my lasagna, muttered a final prayer for its soul, and pulled the trigger.

With a whoosh, the foam sprayed everywhere, completely obliterating my final shred of hope.

I groaned loudly.

Elliot wheezed. “Oh my God, you just killed your lasagna, didn’t you?”

“Murdered it in cold blood.”

“Do I need to report you to the Italian government? Isn’t lasagna death a crime against humanity over there?”

“Please do. I deserve to be exiled.”

He chuckled. “Tell you what—I’ll cook next time. In fact, maybe I should be our designated cooker.”

My heart stuttered. Next time.Ourdesignated . . .

I swallowed, rubbing the back of my neck. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, softer: “I miss you, Mike.”

I closed my eyes.

And for a second, I forgot the burning lasagna, the beeping alarm, the disaster around me.

For a second, there was just his voice.

“Yeah,” I exhaled. “I miss you, too. Like, a lot. A whole lot.”

Elliot hesitated. “I should let you . . . clean up whatever war zone you’ve created.”

I groaned. “Yeah. This is definitely going to require a hazmat team.”

He laughed again. “Call me later? Before you go to bed and are far, far from the kitchen?”

I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me. “Yeah,” I said. “Talk soon.”

We hung up.

I looked at the charred, foam-covered remains of my lasagna and let my forehead hit the counter with a dull thud.

Worst. Timing. Ever.

Thesheetswerecoolagainst my skin as I crawled into bed, my body finally catching up to the exhaustion that had been creeping over me all day. The scent of burned cheese still lingered faintly in the air despite my best efforts to air out the house, but at least the smoke alarm had shut up.

I sighed, stretching out against the pillows, then reached for my phone.

Elliot answered on the second ring.

“Michael,” he drawled, his voice already slipping into that lazy, low murmur that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

“That’s me,” I said, smirking. “And you’re the poor soul who decided to call me during a natural disaster earlier. How’s the hearing loss?”

Elliot laughed, warm and real. “Still ringing a little. Pretty sure I’ll have PTSD from that smoke alarm. In fact, your house might suffer, too. Is there therapy for houses? How’s the fallout?”

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