Page 52 of The Lineman

He grinned, setting two plates down. “Maybe.”

I shook my head, walking toward the table in a daze. “This isn’t dinner. This is . . . this is a personal attack.”

Elliot chuckled. “Sit before it gets cold.”

I collapsed into a chair, still deeply overwhelmed.

“I feel like I should be worried,” I muttered, picking up my fork.

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “Worried?”

“Yeah,” I said, cutting into a scallop. “This is too good. If I keep dating you, I’ll never be brave enough to cook again.”

He smirked, taking a sip of wine. “The neighborhood will be safer for it.”

I grabbed my wine and sipped, muttered, “Asshole,” then tossed my spoon atop the plate that had formerly held chocolate soufflé. I’d devoured the entire thing in as few bites as was humanly possible, and was fairly certain, if he’d made more, I would’ve eaten everything in the kitchen.

I looked up at Elliot, wrecked in the best possible way.

I was stuffed, slightly buzzed, my hair even more disheveled than normal, and I sat slumped in my chair, staring at my empty plate like it had personally betrayed me.

“I hate you,” I muttered.

“Me or the plate?” Elliot smirked, sipping the last of his wine. “That’s a weird way to say, ‘Thank you for the best meal of my life, Elliot.’”

I waved a lazy hand, still half in a food coma. “No, no. I stand by what I said. You have ruined all other food for me. I’m going to have to eat sad, pathetic meals now and compare everything to this risotto. You’ve cursed me.”

He chuckled. “I accept full responsibility.”

I sighed dramatically, then pushed back from the table and stretched my arms over my head. The hem of my sweater lifted just slightly, exposing a sliver of skin above my jeans.

Elliot looked.

I caught him looking.

My smile was instant.

He scowled and stood up. “Come on, lightweight. Let’s move to the couch before you pass out at my table.”

I grinned, letting him guide me toward the massive leather couch that had been through hell and back but remained the comfiest damn thing he owned. I practically collapsed onto it, sighing as I melted into the cushions.

“Oh my God,” I groaned. “Why isthisthe most comfortable couch in existence? I may never move again. Please, let me just live here.”

“Fine by me.” He shrugged, grabbing the remote and flicking on the TV.

I peeked one eye open. “You refurbished this, too, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

Because, yes. Yes, he had.

I groaned. “Of course you did. I have never in my life met someone so irritatingly competent.”

He dropped next to me, nudging me with an elbow. “Relax. It’s just a couch.”

“Aperfectcouch.” I sighed dramatically. “Theperfect couch.”

He flipped to Netflix because that particular night of the week was an entertainment black hole on regular channels. “What do you wanna watch?”

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