Page 102 of The Lineman

I groaned. “Kitchen’s still a war zone. There’s ricotta in places I didn’t know ricotta could be. Don’t get me started on the flour and extinguisher foam.”

“Your poor lasagna,” he teased. “Did it suffer much?”

“Don’t joke about the dead, Elliot.”

His laugh was a rumble, distant thunder rolling across a placid sea, and it settled into my chest like something I’d been missing for far too long.

We drifted into easy conversation, talking about the cleanup efforts in Florida, about Jamie and how the school needed a GSA, about Mateo’s latest war with the vending machine, which had, yet again, stolen his quarters without remorse.

Elliot chuckled. “You know, if you ever need an exorcism for that thing, I got a guy.”

“Oh yeah? Does he specialize in possessed snack machines?”

“That, and haunted toasters,” Elliot said. “Real niche market, but hey, work is work.”

I laughed, rubbing a hand over my face. God, I missed this. The banter, the warmth, the way he always made me feel lighter, even after the longest days. His humor was dryer than the wine I’d drank in lieu of sustenance, and hearing it made me feel almost as tipsy.

And then his voice dipped lower. Thicker.

“I’ve been thinking about . . . about our couch time.”

I froze, my entire body blazing in an instant. Never before in the history of bedtimes was I so thankful that I slept in the nude.

“Oh?” I said, keeping my voice casual, but my pulse had already picked up, and Little Mike was stretching his little arms and legs, readying for what might come . . . literally.

“Yeah,” Elliot murmured. “Your mouth’s been driving me crazy all damn day.”

The air between us shifted. My fingers tightened around the phone.

Elliot’s voice dropped into something dark and delicious. “You gonna make me beg, Michael?”

A slow smile curled at my lips. “I dunno, maybe,” I murmured. “I think I like hearing you all worked up and desperate.”

A low growl rumbled from the other end.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he muttered.

And just like that, the slow burn burst into flames.

“You in bed?” Elliot asked.

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling. “Just me and the aftermath of my cooking failures.”

Elliot hummed. “What are you wearing?”

I smirked. “God, you really are predictable.”

“Answer the damn question.”

I glanced down. “Same thing I always wear to bed.”

“Hmm,” he rumbled. “Nothing, then. Me likey.”

I chuckled. “Me likey that you likey.”

A sharp breath from his end. “Fuck, Mike.”

A thrill ran through me.

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