Page 19 of The Lineman

He held up his sandwich like a trophy. “Spicy Italian. Extra banana peppers. Big, juicy banana peppers.”

I nodded, considering, desperate to grasp if he’d just made a sexual innuendo or if my pulsing partner down below was simply betraying his every word. “Okay. So, you like a little heat—a little kick—but you balance it with a safe, reliable base.” I narrowed my eyes. “That tracks.”

Elliot smirked. “Oh yeah? And what does your sandwich say about you, Professor Pastrami?”

I rolled my eyes at the nickname but secretly liked it. “Mine says I’m a man of refined, simple tastes.”

Elliot snorted. “It says you have the taste buds of a child.”

“Excuse me,” I gasped, dramatically offended. “This is aclassicsandwich. It’s time-honored. It’s dignified.”

It was his turn to shrug. “It’s boring.”

“It’s safe,” I corrected. “Which, given my history of things going horrifically wrong in public, is a necessary precaution.”

Elliot smirked around another bite. “You do seem like a guy who plays it safe.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And you seem like a guy who eats gas station burritos at 2 a.m.”

He grinned. “I will neither confirm nor deny.”

“God help me. I’m having lunch with an adrenaline junkie.”

Elliot leaned back in the booth, one arm draped casually over the seat, his bicep finding a way to bulge despite his arm being stretched out. “So, Mike Albert, newest resident of our sleepy little cul-de-sac, why Mount Vernon?”

I took a sip of my drink. “I was looking for a change. I liked the school. Plus, I wanted a place where my dog could have a yard.”

Elliot grinned. “The horny little menace?”

“Homer is not a menace,” I said primly. “He is a misunderstood genius.”

“Right,” Elliot said, amused. “That’s why his first instinct upon meeting me was full-scale sexual assault.”

I sighed, rubbing my temple. “Okay, fair. He has . . . enthusiasm.”

“You watch a lot ofThe Simpsons?”

“The Simpsons?” I asked through a mouthful that refused to break down.

“Homer.”

“Oh!” My eyes widened in recognition. “No, his name isn’t from that show. It’s a baseball thing.”

“Baseball?” His brows bunched like I’d just quotedMacbeth.

“I’m a huge fan. Love the Braves, always have.”

He stared . . . and blinked. I couldn’t tell if he was amused, fascinated, perplexed, or stunned into silence. Then, without so much as a transitionary sentence, he chuckled and took another bite of his sandwich. “So, teacher, huh? Always wanted to do that?”

We needed a subject change bell—one of those little silver desk bells one slaps with a palm whenever he is about to change the subject abruptly. How was I supposed to keep up without causing irreparable damage? Conversational whiplash was a real thing, you know.

“More or less. I’ve always loved books, and I figured forcing teenagers to appreciate literature was a noble calling.”

“And how’s that going so far?”

“I’ve been teaching for over ten years now, so I’m pretty used to it.” I paused, then groaned. “Although, today I learned that certain fifteen-year-olds are terrifying.”

Elliot laughed. “Yeah, that tracks.”

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