Page 91 of The Lineman

I kept eating, waiting for the next attack. When it didn’t come, I glanced up and found her watching me with something softer in her gaze.

I swallowed my bite. “What?”

She tilted her head. “How is he?”

The question hit differently. It wasn’t a tease or sexual innuendo. There was no sarcasm or sass. Only concern.

I set my fork down, exhaling slowly. “He’s in Florida right now. The storm cleanup.”

Her expression shifted, concern deepening the wrinkles around her eyes. “Right,” she murmured. “That’s hard work.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She studied me for a long moment, then said, “And you’re worried about him.”

It wasn’t a question.

I let out a breath, running a hand through my hair. “I know he’s tough. I know he’s done this a hundred times before. But still . . . I can’t help it. I haven’t done this before, haven’t seen someone I . . . well . . . a friend go off to the middle of a disaster.” I hesitated, then added, “And I feel stupid for worrying this much when we’ve only known each other for a few weeks.”

Mrs. H made a low, disapproving sound. “Now, that’s shite, and you know it.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

She pointed her spoon at me. She was good at wielding kitchen utensils as weapons. I made a mental note to never hand her a knife. “Lad, you don’t get to choose when you care about someone. It just happens. Whether it’s been weeks, months, or years, doesn’t matter. If he’s gotten under your skin, then he’s there, and that’s that.”

I swallowed hard, looking down at my plate.

“Love doesn’t wait for permission,” she added gently. “It finds you when it’s ready, not when you are.”

I sat there, struggling to breathe past the lump in my throat.

Love.

I hadn’t let myself think about that word. Hadn’t let myself go there.

But she had. With barely a thought.

And if I was being honest with myself, if I stripped away all the overthinking and second-guessing . . .

I missed him.

Missed him more than I should for how short a time we’d had together.

Missed him in a way that hurt.

Mrs. H must’ve seen the conflict on my face, because she reached across the table and patted my hand. “Let yourself feel it, lad. If it’s real, it won’t go away just because you try to ignore it.”

I exhaled slowly, gripping her gnarled hand. “Thanks, Mrs. H.”

She gave me a warm, knowing smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”

We sat in comfortable silence for a long moment before she abruptly pulled her hand back, her face twisting into something far more mischievous.

“Oh, and next time,” she said brightly, “take a picture of his cock for me, would you? It’s been over a decade since I’ve seen one in the flesh, and I feel I should keep up with the times.”

I dropped my fork.

“MRS. H!”

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