Page 27 of The Lineman

Elliot chuckled, stepping past me and walking toward the kitchen.

“Wait!” I yelped, rushing to block his path, desperate to preserve some illusion of dignity.

Too late.

He peered in, taking in the disaster zone—burned garlic bread, tragic pasta, a half-murdered chicken—and laughed.

“Jesus, Albert,” he muttered. “What the hell were you making? A human sacrifice?”

I groaned, rubbing my face. “It was supposed to be pasta with chicken in a garlic butter sauce. But instead, it’s . . . whatever this is.”

Elliot turned to me, his brown eyes gleaming with amusement. “You were really trying to impress me, huh?”

I crossed my arms, embarrassed but defiant. “I’ll have you know I am a man of many talents.”

“Cooking is not one of them.”

I scowled. “Obviously.”

Elliot smirked, stepping closer. “Well,” he said, voice a little lower, a little more amused, “you get points for effort.”

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. “And how many points do I lose for trying to kill us both with my cooking?”

Elliot tilted his head. “I’d say you break even.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re just being nice because you feel bad for me.”

He grinned. “Nah, I’m being nice because you’re cute when you’re panicked.”

I sputtered, my panic peaking.

“C’mon, Mikey. Let’s order a pizza before you burn the house down.” He laughed again, patting my shoulder as he passed. Turning back, he asked, “Is there anything still on in there? Do you need help turning off the stove?”

“Uh, no, thank you. I can work the knobs just fine.”

Elliot snorted. “I bet you can.”

Homer barked in agreement.

I nearly stumbled over the innuendo.

Thirty minutes later, an over-acned teen with disheveled brown hair and a hat that read, “Let them eat pie,” delivered our dinner. I paid him, added a fat tip for coming quickly, then stalked into the den to deposit two boxes onto the coffee table.

“Ta da! Dinner.”

“You say that like you made it.”

I snarled. “I made the call. Same thing.”

Elliot chuckled, then turned his attention to the boxes, opening each and inspecting the toppings. One was plain pepperoni, while the other was a combo of Canadian bacon and pineapple, the pizza of the gods.

“Pineapple?” He said the word like he was passing a gallstone.

“Trust me. You’ll love it.”

“Like I loved your garlic bread?”

“Fuck you, Elliot Hart. Fuck the fuck off.”

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