Page 9 of The Lineman

I sighed. “Mrs. H, I appreciate the effort, but I don’t need a matchmaker.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Fine. Then what about that new boy on the street? Mike something? He seemed cute.”

I stilled. “Mike?”

She nodded, pouring herself more wine. Ineededto get out of this conversation before she drained the bottle. “Yeah. You know, the nervous one. Clumsier than a baby giraffe in a glassware shop. The one whose dog tried to fuck the life out of your leg.”

I could not believe this was happening.

“Mike’s not—” I stopped, realizing I had no idea what I was about to say.

“Oh, I see.” Mrs. H’s grin resembled the imprisoned Hannibal Lecter, the psycho doctor dude fromTheSilence of the Lambs. “You noticed him, too, huh?”

I scowled. “He’s . . . nice.”

She cackled. “Nice? Oh, honey, that man was eyeing you like a goddamn steak dinner. You could probably knock him over just by looking at him too hard. I bet his clothes would fall off if you just walked in his door. Come to think of it, he’d probably let you do a lot more than that with his door.”

“Mrs. H!” I huffed a laugh. “He’s a nervous wreck.”

“Adorably so,” she corrected. “And you could use a little adorable in your life, Hart. All you do is work, work, work. When’s the last time you had fun? Hell, when’s the last time you got laid? A little squirty squirt might help your demeanor. Resell values in this neighborhood might go up if you, well, got it up.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, squeezed my eyes shut, and mumbled, “I do things. I have fun.”

“Doing what? Fixing power lines?”

I didn’t answer.

She grinned. “Exactly. Listen, I’m not saying you have to marry the boy, but he’s new, he’s single, and he clearly thinks you’re hotter than a July sidewalk. What’s the harm in getting to know him?”

I considered that for a moment.

Mikewascute. And yeah, he was a little skittish and prone to word vomit, but it was kind of endearing. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed the way his eyes lingered, the way he fumbled his words every time I looked at him.

Not to mention the fact that he had somehow managed to throw frozen peas at me within twenty-four hours of meeting.

Mrs. H watched me like a hawk, clearly enjoying my internal debate.

Finally, she smiled wickedly. “Just think about it, Elliot.”

I rolled my eyes, but damn it, she had a point.

And now, I couldn’t stop thinking about adorably messy red hair and a lopsided grin.

Chapter four

Mike

Thereweretwotypesof people in this world: those who exuded effortless authority . . .

And me.

Standing in front of my first-period class at Mount Vernon High School, I had never felt less like an authority figure in my life. Sure, I’d been a teacher for more than a decade, but any self-respecting gay man who’d endured a youth filled with bullying would admit a simple truth:

The first day of school—any school—was mortifying, and it didn’t matter if you were a student or teacher. I loved high school kids, but they were spawns of Satan, pure and simple.

Okay, not so pure.

The classroom was standard high school fare—beige walls, motivational posters, rows of desks filled with sleepy teenagers who looked at me like I was either their next victim or their new favorite form of entertainment.

---