Page 50 of The Lineman

Me: Fuck my life.

Sisi: Fuck that teacher . . . and tell us about it.

Me: We’re breaking up . . . I can barely hear you . . . or read you . . . or whatever. Gotta go.

Sisi: ELLIOT PETER PARKER HART!

Me: Teacher and I have another date tonight. Talk after. Bye.

Sisi: I SO hate you!

Chapter sixteen

Mike

ThereweremanythingsI was prepared for when I walked up to Elliot’s door for our second date.

Maybe a sweet, low-key dinner.

Maybe another round of awkward-yet-endearing flirting.

Maybe anactualfirst kiss, since Homer wasn’t here to ruin my life this time.

What I was not prepared for?

A goddamn Michelin-star meal.

Because the second Elliot opened the door and I stepped inside, I was hit with a wall of rich, buttery, garlicky aromas that nearly took me out at the knees.

I held out the wine I brought like it was a peace offering. “I picked this completely at random, but it looked expensive, so I’m hoping it works?”

Elliot took the bottle, glanced at the label, and nodded approvingly. “Pinot Noir. Pairs well with scallops.”

I froze and blinked at him. “You already know what I brought pairs with dinner?”

“I take food seriously.” He smirked. “Wait here a second.”

He vanished through an opening opposite where I stood, giving me time to take in his home. It was the kind of place that felt lived in but never cluttered, where every object had a purpose, a story, or both. It was a space that balanced strength with comfort, a reflection of the Elliot I was coming to know—sturdy, practical, but with a quiet warmth.

The living room appeared to be the heart of everything, with walls painted a deep charcoal gray that grounded the space, while rich, honey-toned wood floors kept it from feeling cold. A massive, well-worn leather couch dominated the room—the kind of couch you could sink into for hours without realizing it. A thick wool blanket, rough but warm, was casually draped over one side.

Against the far wall, a fireplace stood like the quiet centerpiece of the room, its mantel lined with a few carefully chosen things—a black-and-white photograph of an older couple, probably his parents, a wooden-handled folding knife on a display stand, and a small brass compass that had clearly seen some years.

And then there was the antique cabinet.

I spotted it immediately and nearly drooled at the tall glass-fronted hutch, its dark mahogany wood gleaming faintly under the soft glow of the room’s lighting.

“Whoa.” I walked up to the piece, tilting my head. “This . . . this is gorgeous.”

Elliot, the sneak, had returned and was watching me from where he leaned against a doorframe. “That thing? Nearly ended up in a landfill.”

I tore my eyes away, blinking at him. “You’re joking.”

Elliot shook his head. “Found it at a junk shop a few years ago. It was wrecked—half the doors were missing, the wood was peeling, and the glass was cracked.” He crossed his arms, looking at it with quiet satisfaction. “Took me six months to restore. Had to strip it, sand it, replace the glass, rebuild the shelves.”

I ran my fingertips along the edge of the frame. “Damn. You did all this?”

Elliot shrugged, but there was a flicker of pride in his eyes. “I like fixing things, bringing them back to life.”

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