Page 16

Chapter sixteen

Mike

There were many things I 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 an actual first 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.”

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?”

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 is this the 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.”

“A perfect couch.” I sighed dramatically. “ The perfect 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?”

“Something gay,” I muttered, shifting to get more comfortable. “I demand romance.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure you don’t want an action movie? Something with explosions? Maybe a basketball flick?”

I gave him a deadpan look. “Elliot. I sat through an entire basketball practice for you. Give me my gay romcom.”

“For me? I don’t recall needing sprints or drills in my life again.” He acted shocked. “Why did you sit through practice?”

We talked while he scrolled, searching through an endless stream of options and finding nothing worthy of our attention. I spoke of Jamie, his coming out, then detailed dinner with Mateo. We were growing into fast friends. I wasn’t sure why, but that made Elliot smile.

His scrolling stopped when he landed on a movie I’d heard about but hadn’t gotten around to watching. I perked up. “Ooh, that one’s supposed to be good. Also, apparently, super spicy.”

He blinked. “Spicy?”

“Oh, yeah. Like, steamy within the first ten minutes.” I grinned wickedly. “Butts and dicks on display and everything!”

Elliot hesitated . . . but I was already snuggled into his couch, looking so content and soft that he just pressed play.

Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.

Because I wasn’t lying.

Ten minutes in, and there were hands in pants. Mouths everywhere. A bad situation that was rapidly escalating.

Elliot shifted uncomfortably. He swallowed. Hard.

He shifted again, and I was sure he was thinking about anything that might keep his jeans from tenting. Power lines. Broken circuits. The last time he got electrocuted on the job. Mrs. Henderson.

I snickered, a slurry, drunken sound.

Elliot froze, then slowly turned his head.

I was watching him.

Not the movie. Elliot.

And I was smirking.

He scowled. “What?”

My eyes dropped—boldly, shamelessly—to his lap, then back up to his face.

“Oh, nothing,” I said innocently.

He clenched his jaw. “Mike.”

My smirk widened.

Then I shifted closer. Not a lot. Just enough that I could feel the warmth of his thigh, the weight of his presence.

Elliot swallowed hard.

My dick pulsed.

I knew exactly what I was doing, and I was having the time of my life. I sighed, deliberately settling further into the couch. “So comfy,” I murmured.

He exhaled sharply, gripping the remote like a lifeline.

“You need to relax,” I said.

He cocked his head.

“You’re so stiff.” My snickers grew into churlish giggles, besting even those of the teens I taught, as I joked about his untimely . . . state of affairs.

He shifted, trying to get his power pole unfolded. It was growing and looked painfully uncomfortable, all bent yet growing beneath its veil of denim.

“Need a hand?” I asked, a spark of evil in my voice.

He stood and stepped back, hopping a little to try to readjust. The outline of his bulge was now crystal clear through his jeans—jeans he had to know were a tad too tight—but who didn’t love their favorite pair of Levi’s?

“Oh, my, Mr. Hart. Aren’t you a big boy?” I crooned.

He shifted again, adjusting his pants, failing to get his cock to lie in its normal position.

I shoved myself forward.

Elliot took a step backward, bumping into the coffee table and losing his balance. Before we knew what had happened, he was flat on his back on the hardwood floor with me leaning over him.

“Are you all right? Elliot? Can you hear me?”

He rolled his eyes. “I tripped. I didn’t poke my ears with an icepick.”

“Oh, good. You’re still a sarcastic bitch. That means you’re not hurt.” My smug expression told him all he needed to know.

Then, before he could try to stand, I lay down on top of him, pressing my full weight against his body and nuzzled my own half hard-on against his.

Fire shot up my spine.

“Uh, Mike—”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

So he did.