Page 145 of The Lineman

Mike choked.

“I was . . . I meant . . . oh, fuck me. Never mind.”

Gina howled, clapping all the way back into the kitchen.

By the time we finished, I was stuffed, barely able to move.

“Time for cobbler,” Gina announced, dropping two bowls larger than the endless salad bowl from Olive Garden onto the table.

“Sweet Jesus,” Mike muttered. “How are we supposed to eat all that?”

Gina dropped two spoons on the table like they’d personally offended her sensibilities. “One bite at a time. Now, get to it.”

I didn’t have room for cobbler, but one bite in, I knew I’d die fat and happy. There was no way I was leaving a single crumb in that bowl, no matter if it was the size of an Olympic stadium.

Mike ate without speaking. He occasionally groaned—or moaned—or sounded like he’d shot in his jeans for the third time. But he didn’t stop shoving fruity goodness into his mouth long enough to utter actual words until it was gone and the bowl was scraped clean.

Gina came back with the check and a knowing smile. “So. Y’all coming back before you leave town?”

Mike and I exchanged a glance.

I grinned.

“Oh, absolutely.”

Chapter forty

Mike

Wewaddledoutofthe restaurant, our lovely server/hostess/owner making catcalls about Elliot’s butt the whole way to the car. I didn’t think it was possible for the burly man to blush, but even his ears were red by the time the door slammed and the shouts of, “Work that thang,” faded into the distance.

Elliot looked like he wanted to crawl under the seat. I couldn’t stop laughing.

“If you keep reveling in my tribulation, there will be a price to pay,” he said without daring to look at me.

“Oh, really?” I said through a series of snorts because—obvi—I had totally lost control. “Are you saying I might deserve a good spanking?”

His face somehow turned redder.

“That would be a good start, but I doubt I’d quit there. You’ve been a very, very bad boy tonight. Siding with a stranger over your boyfr—”

His mouth froze mid-word. His eyes widened and fixed on some point ahead. He became so focused on the road that I almost thought there was a deer or dead body or maybe Big Foot in our way.

If I was honest, his almost designation of our whatever we were had me fairly close to piddling in the passenger’s seat.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean . . . I mean I didn’t . . . I wasn’t trying . . . well fucking fuckety fuckery.”

That made me snort again, and had the added benefit of restarting my heartbeat. I reached across and gripped his leg.

“I want to be your boyfriend,” I said quietly.

He blinked a few times, so rapidly I thought something might’ve flown into his eyes. I wasn’t sure he was still breathing by the way all color drained from his face, the deep crimson of his embarrassment flowing through him and out his feet.

He smacked his lips a few times, as if his mouth had suddenly turned into a desert wasteland.

“I . . . uh . . . okay. That’s, um, something. I mean, to think about. It’s something we should think about. A lot. I mean . . . shit.”

“El, it’s okay. There’s no rush. I’m not some teenage lovesick puppy who’s going to suddenly turn into your stalker.” I squeezed his leg. “I really like you, and I really—really—like what we’re doing, what we’re growing into. It doesn’t need a name yet, not until we’re both comfortable, assuming that’s something we want to do, you know?”

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