Page 51 of The Lineman

I bit my lip to keep from blurting something stupid like, “Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking hot.”

Instead, I just muttered, “I love it . . . so much.”

Elliot smirked. “Yeah? Wait till you see the dining table.”

I followed him into the kitchen, only to freeze at the entrance.

The kitchen was where Elliot’s practical nature shone brighter than anywhere.

The countertops were black stone, clean but slightly worn, the cabinets a deep walnut, and the appliances functional but not flashy. A heavy-duty espresso machine sat in the corner, next to a row of mugs that absolutely did not match.

But the dining table—that was what made me stop in my tracks.

“Okay,” I said slowly, running a hand along its surface. “Tell me you didn’t make this.”

Elliot chuckled. “Didn’t make it, no. Restored it.”

My eyes widened. “This was a restoration, too?”

The table was a solid oak beast, long and beautifully aged, its surface worn smooth by time. The edges were slightly imperfect, marked with the kind of history that couldn’t be faked. It was surrounded by matched chairs, though some looked newer, some clearly antique.

“I got that from an old farmhouse estate sale,” Elliot explained, running his hand over the wood like it was something alive. “It was barely standing. The legs were wobbly, half the finish was gone, and there were deep gouges all over the top. Had to strip it down, reinforce the base, and refinish the whole thing.”

I shook my head, still processing. “You just . . . know how to do all that?”

Elliot smirked. “It’s not that hard, just takes patience and the right tools.”

I dragged a hand through my hair. “Jesus. I think I just developed a fetish for furniture restoration.”

Elliot barked out a laugh. “Good to know.”

And that’s when I noticed it.

The spread.

The extravaganza.

The full-blown restaurant-level meal that this man had casually whipped up for our second date.

There were scallops, golden-seared and basking in their own perfection, creamy parmesan risotto that looked like it belonged in an art gallery, roasted asparagus drizzled with balsamic glaze, because apparently Elliot was a classy bitch.

At the center, still steaming, sat a fresh baguette, because carbs were a love language.

And, sitting to the side, what looked like homemade chocolate soufflé just waiting for the final act.

I stared at the table.

Then at him.

Then back at the table.

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“Elliot,” I said finally, “are you trying to ruin all other food for me?”

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