Page 15 of The Lineman

Guess the hero thing worked out sometimes.

By the time the sun started setting, I was bone-tired, covered in dirt, and ready for a shower; but as I pulled into my driveway, I saw Mike in his front yard with Homer, tossing a ball so the little ball of energy could fetch.

Homer chased the ball, then, once secured, fell over like he’d been shot and chewed like his life depended on bursting the rubber toy. Mike ended up getting far more exercise than his wiry beast.

I sat in my truck for a moment, watching.

Mike was cute, in an absentminded professor kind of way. Tousled red hair, glasses he kept adjusting, a dimple when he laughed at something his dog did—but only on one cheek. That was odd. Didn’t most people dimple on both cheeks?

And Mrs. H’s words played in my head again.

“That man was eyeing you like a goddamn steak dinner.”

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face.

All right, why not?

Worst-case scenario, he’d say no and trip over something while doing it.

I got out of the truck and braced myself.

“Hey, Mike,” I said, lifting a hand to wave like some idiot a hundred yards away.

He turned, mid-throw, leaving poor Homer yipping and jumping, jaw snapping up at the ball he couldn’t reach.

“Oh, Elliot, hey. I didn’t see you there.”

My hand—the waving one—found its way to my head, where it smoothed back hair that wasn’t long enough to smooth, making me feel even more stupid than I did before.

“Yeah, well, sorry for that. Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya.”

He smiled, a cute, nervous little thing. “It’s okay. I startle easily.”

Homer began growling at Mike, so he tossed the ball without turning away from me. It flew toward the house, rolling beneath thick bushes. Homer was a blur of legs, fur, and tail, as he streaked across the yard after his prize. I was fairly certain I saw his tongue flopping all the way behind him, somewhere near his tail. He was going to make some girl dog very happy in the future.

Mike blinked up at me.

I scratched my scalp and shifted from one foot to the other.

Homer finally returned, ball in mouth, tiny leaves from the bush clinging to his fur like drowning men to a life raft. When Mike didn’t acknowledge the dog’s return, Homer snorted, then trotted over to me, plopping his butt down, tail wagging faster than a human eye could see, drool beginning to form around the ball.

I grinned down. “Persistent little bugger, aren’t ya?”

“You have no idea,” Mike finally spoke as I hurled the ball across the yard and onto the neighbor’s lawn.

“Nice arm,” Mike said. Both his brows had raised as he watched the ball almost roll two neighbors over into the yard with the tire swing. “You ever play baseball?”

I shook my head. “Football, but I wasn’t a QB.”

Mike nodded like he understood, though his blank stare said otherwise.

“So, um, not that I’m not glad to see you, but did you need something?”“Right. Sorry. I, uh, well . . .” I blinked a few times. “Mrs. H said . . . shit . . . forget her.”

Mike chuckled, and his one dimple winked at me.

Something fluttered in my chest.

“Mrs. H?”

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