Page 143 of The Lineman

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off by slapping a couple of laminated menus onto the counter with a thwack.

“Never mind, don’t answer that. I can already tell you’re both a little too pretty for your own damn good.”

Mike choked.

I blinked.

Gina arched a brow. “What, cat got your tongue? Thought I’d get at least one flirty comeback before you sat down. You gay boys don’t usually wilt so fast.”

Mike cleared his throat, his ears turning pink. “We, uh . . . just came for some food.”

“Oh, honey.” She snorted. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that from a man, I’d own the whole damn county . . . and I’d have at least a dozen fewer kids runnin’ around.”

I had no idea what that meant, but I wasn’t about to ask.

She turned on her heel. “Sit wherever. Just not in booth three, that one’s haunted.”

Mike’s eyes widened slightly. “Haunted?”

She gave him a flat look. “No, but you believed me for a second, didn’t you?”

I burst out laughing as she strutted off toward the kitchen, yelling something at a cook we hadn’t seen yet.

Mike exhaled. “What the hell just happened?”

“I think we just met a force of nature,” I said, still grinning. “Does Mrs. H have a sister or a long-lost cousin?”

Mike shrugged.

We slid into a booth—notnumber three—and barely had time to glance at the menu before Gina was back, flipping open her notepad like she was already tired of us.

“All right, let’s get this over with,” she said. “I’m Gina, I own this place, I run this place, and if you’re rude to me, I will spit in your food, maybe blow a little snot for good measure. What’ll it be?”

Mike opened his mouth, then hesitated. “What’s good?”

She laughed. “Sweetheart, everything is good. Pick something deep-fried and I promise you’ll leave here a changed man.”

I closed the menu. “I’ll take whatever you think is best.”

Mike shot me a look like I’d just signed a deal with the devil.

“Aren’t you a slab o’ burnin’ lovin’ beef?” Gina winked. “That, my hunky friend, is the right answer.”

She turned to Mike. “And you, precious?”

I snorted and muttered, “Precious,” earning a sharp look from across the table.

Gina giggled.

Mike cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh . . . I’ll do the same. No fish, though.”

“Got it.” She made like she was writing an essay on her pad while muttering, “Gays don’t do fish.”

I had to cover my mouth. Mike looked like he wanted to crawl under the table.

“Y’all want sweet tea?”

Mike nodded, but I hesitated. “What kind of sweet tea?”

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