Page 134 of The Lineman

The older nurse smacked Elliot’s arm. “Don’t joke about that!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, but he didn’t sound sorry at all.

“Wish someone would set off my alarms.” The younger nurse smirked. “Well, I guess that means no more passionate hospital make-outs for now.”

“Tragic,” Elliot said.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. “You’re unbelievable.”

Elliot grinned at me. “You love me.”

I opened my mouth—then froze.

Because . . . shit.

I did.

Chapter thirty-seven

Elliot

Ihadn’trealizedhowmuch I needed to be home until I was standing at my front door, Mike holding one hand, crutch in the other, staring at the chipped paint like it was the goddamn Holy Grail.

Two weeks in Florida, then another storm, then a hospital.

My leg ached, my head still felt like it was packed with cotton, my chest throbbed where ribs had cracked, and I was so fucking done with the smell of antiseptic and the sound of beeping monitors.

But I was finally home.

I barely had time to shift my weight toward the doorknob before the damn thing flew open.

“About bloody time, lad!”

Mrs. H’s voice cut through the quiet like a battle cry, and before I could so much as flinch, she was grabbing me by the arm—gently, thank God—and ushering me inside like some long-lost soldier returning from war.

Homer darted between our legs, racing about so quickly I could barely catch his furry blur before it vanished again.

Behind Mrs. H, Matty and Omar stood in my living room, grinning like they had been waiting for this moment all night. A tall guy I didn’t recognize, with black hair, bushy brows, and stupidly perfect teeth, stood with them.

I barely got my crutch planted before Mike’s dog launched himself at me.

“Jesus, Homer!”

I stumbled back a step, barely keeping myself upright as ten pounds of fur and boundless energy shoved against me, his tail thudding against my leg like a drum, cock pounding my jeans with all the might of a porn star on crack. He was whining, tongue lolling, paws scrambling up my side like he wanted to climb inside my ribcage just to be closer.

Mike was there in an instant, his hands firm on my waist, steadying me before I could topple over. His warmth was solid behind me, his fingers brushing against my skin where my shirt had ridden up.

“You good?” he murmured, low and steady in my ear.

“My jeans might never be the same, but yeah.” I grinned, trying not to wince.

He didn’t let go immediately.

And I didn’t move away.

Then Homer let out another dramatic whine, and I had bigger problems.

“All right, all right,” Mike laughed, finally reaching down and prying his horny little guy off my leg, clutching him to his chest.

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