Chapter five

Elliot

Being a lineman was like being a firefighter—except no one clapped when you restored power.

Most people didn’t think about the hundreds of miles of wires, transformers, and poles crisscrossing their neighborhoods until something went wrong. Then, suddenly, we were heroes—or villains, depending on how long the power stayed out.

Sadly, most never knew our names or what we did. So, did that make us heroes? Or were we merely background players doing a job no one else wanted to do?

I suppose it didn’t really matter. I liked the job. Always had. It was real, tangible work—fix something, and it stayed fixed. There were no meetings, no office politics, just hard work, problem-solving, and a damn good view from the top of a pole.

I rolled into the crew yard at 6:15 a.m. sharp, coffee in one hand, breakfast biscuit in the other. The air was thick with diesel and sweat, and guys were already milling around, checking gear and shooting the shit before the morning briefing.

“Look who decided to show up,” Gerald, my crew chief, called. “What, Hart? You get lost on the way here?”

I took a long sip of coffee before answering. “Just wanted to give you a head start. Figured you needed the handicap.”

The other guys laughed. Gerald grunted and shot me a bird. “Smart-ass.”

I grinned and climbed into the work truck, checking the day’s job list. It looked like we had a fairly routine day—some maintenance work, a couple of outages from a tree branch that took down a line, and a transformer swap on the east side of town.

A solid day.

Or, at least, it should have been.

My first call was a classic case of nature versus electricity. A big maple tree in some guy’s backyard had decided to give up on life and drop a massive limb straight onto the power lines. The homeowner, a guy in his sixties wearing cargo shorts and socks with sandals, greeted us with a nervous chuckle. “Didn’t think a little wind would do that.”

Gerald, who had no patience for fools, just grunted. “Yeah. Funny how trees work.”

I climbed up, maneuvering through the tangled mess, carefully detaching the branches from the line before we could restring it. It wasn’t hard work, just tedious.

The homeowner stood below, hands on his hips. “Man, I’d do it myself, but my wife says I’m too old to be climbing ladders.”

I looked down at him. “Yeah, you’d definitely electrocute yourself.”

He laughed like I was joking.

I wasn’t.

After Mr. Sock-N-Sandals, we were sent to a mystery outage—one of those calls where no one had a clue what the problem was.

It turned out the problem was a guy named Harold.

Harold was a well-meaning but profoundly unqualified retiree who had attempted to install a new outdoor light. Instead, he had somehow managed to cut power to his entire street.

“Ah, hell,” he said when we knocked on his door. “I was just tryin’ to replace a bulb!”

“You rewired the whole box,” Gerald pointed out.

“Ah,” Harold said, nodding solemnly. “That’d do it, won’t it?”

We worked the repair, and Harold promised never to touch electricity again.

We left, unsung heroes once more.

By noon, I found myself sitting in the truck bed eating a ham sandwich and drinking a Gatorade, staring out over a job site. Gerald had wandered off to—who the fuck knew?

The quiet of the day washed over me like a warm bath.

And that’s when Mrs. H’s words popped into my head.

“What about that new boy on the street? Mike something? He seemed cute.”

I took a bite of my sandwich.

“Clumsier than a baby giraffe in a glassware shop.”

I smiled.

Mike was nervous, but it was totally adorable. The way he blushed and stammered, the way he panicked over frozen peas like he’d committed a felony—it had been a while since I’d met someone who didn’t try to be cool and collected all the time.

And his dog humping my leg within five minutes of meeting him?

That was hard to forget.

I took another bite, staring out at the lines.

Maybe I should ask him out , I thought, surprising myself mid-chew.

I hadn’t been on a real date in . . . hell, longer than I cared to admit. Most of my relationships had been casual, low-maintenance and easy. Guys in Atlanta rarely wanted more than a roll in the hay, so I didn’t put much more effort into getting to know them than a good slap and tickle.

But Mike . . . he didn’t seem like the type for casual.

Which—honestly?—might be a good thing.

Mike and I hadn’t really discussed dating or relationships or whatever. Crap, we hadn’t had time to discuss much of anything. Still, I had a good sense of things. He was a good guy, incredibly awkward and insecure, but a good one.

I finished my sandwich and tossed the wrapper.

“Ah, screw it,” I muttered.

What’s the worst that could happen?

The next stop was a transformer swap, which should have been straightforward.

Except for the kid in the yard who would not stop asking questions. Why didn’t children come with an “off” button or switch?

“How high up are you going?”

“Have you ever fallen?”

“Can you see my house from up there?”

“What happens if you touch the wire?”

I sighed. “Kid, if I touch the wire, I die.”

His eyes got huge.

“Cool.”

Future lineman, right there.

Or crispy kid, who knew?

Sometimes, we did more than just fix power lines, like when a cat got itself stuck on a pole, and the entire neighborhood gathered like it was some kind of sporting event.

“She’s been up there all day!” the owner wailed.

I looked up at the fluffy idiot who stared down at me like I was the problem.

“This happens a lot?” I asked.

“Every couple of months,” the guy admitted.

I sighed, climbed the pole, grabbed the cat, and got clawed for my efforts.

When I handed the ungrateful bastard to his owner, the whole street applauded like I was Superman.

Guess the hero thing worked out sometimes.

By the time the sun started setting, I was bone-tired, covered in dirt, and ready for a shower; but as I pulled into my driveway, I saw Mike in his front yard with Homer, tossing a ball so the little ball of energy could fetch.

Homer chased the ball, then, once secured, fell over like he’d been shot and chewed like his life depended on bursting the rubber toy. Mike ended up getting far more exercise than his wiry beast.

I sat in my truck for a moment, watching.

Mike was cute, in an absentminded professor kind of way. Tousled red hair, glasses he kept adjusting, a dimple when he laughed at something his dog did—but only on one cheek. That was odd. Didn’t most people dimple on both cheeks?

And Mrs. H’s words played in my head again.

“That man was eyeing you like a goddamn steak dinner.”

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face.

All right, why not?

Worst-case scenario, he’d say no and trip over something while doing it.

I got out of the truck and braced myself.

“Hey, Mike,” I said, lifting a hand to wave like some idiot a hundred yards away.

He turned, mid-throw, leaving poor Homer yipping and jumping, jaw snapping up at the ball he couldn’t reach.

“Oh, Elliot, hey. I didn’t see you there.”

My hand—the waving one—found its way to my head, where it smoothed back hair that wasn’t long enough to smooth, making me feel even more stupid than I did before.

“Yeah, well, sorry for that. Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya.”

He smiled, a cute, nervous little thing. “It’s okay. I startle easily.”

Homer began growling at Mike, so he tossed the ball without turning away from me. It flew toward the house, rolling beneath thick bushes. Homer was a blur of legs, fur, and tail, as he streaked across the yard after his prize. I was fairly certain I saw his tongue flopping all the way behind him, somewhere near his tail. He was going to make some girl dog very happy in the future.

Mike blinked up at me.

I scratched my scalp and shifted from one foot to the other.

Homer finally returned, ball in mouth, tiny leaves from the bush clinging to his fur like drowning men to a life raft. When Mike didn’t acknowledge the dog’s return, Homer snorted, then trotted over to me, plopping his butt down, tail wagging faster than a human eye could see, drool beginning to form around the ball.

I grinned down. “Persistent little bugger, aren’t ya?”

“You have no idea,” Mike finally spoke as I hurled the ball across the yard and onto the neighbor’s lawn.

“Nice arm,” Mike said. Both his brows had raised as he watched the ball almost roll two neighbors over into the yard with the tire swing. “You ever play baseball?”

I shook my head. “Football, but I wasn’t a QB.”

Mike nodded like he understood, though his blank stare said otherwise.

“So, um, not that I’m not glad to see you, but did you need something?”“Right. Sorry. I, uh, well . . .” I blinked a few times. “Mrs. H said . . . shit . . . forget her.”

Mike chuckled, and his one dimple winked at me.

Something fluttered in my chest.

“Mrs. H?”

I waved a hand. “No, sorry, I didn’t mean . . . never mind.”

Mike took a step toward me, and for some reason I may never understand, my pulse quickened.

“So, uh, I’m not really good at this sort of thing.”

Mike cocked his head. “What sort of thing is this? Talking to your neighbor? Playing with dogs? Handling balls?”

I turned away and coughed into my elbow. Then coughed again. Then struggled with a fit of coughs.

“Hey, you okay?” Mike’s hand found its way to my back. His fingers were bony and thin, but the circles of warmth they traced were larger than life.

“Would you want to have dinner with me . . . sometime . . . like go out or something?” tumbled out of my mouth before I could order the words.

Mike’s hand didn’t stop circling as he gazed up, a smile parting his lips.

“Let me cook for you?”

I blinked down. Apparently, I did that a lot.

“Uh, sure.”

“Friday night? My place? Seven o’clock?”

Well, damn. The scared little bunny was all sure of himself.

“Sounds good.”

Mike’s hand vanished, and my back suddenly felt very empty, abandoned.

Homer, annoyed that the two humans were still ignoring him, latched onto my leg, ball still clutched in his teeth, and began humping like his life depended on making a dog-leg baby.

Mike’s face burst into horror. “Oh, God. I’m sorry.” He reached down and untangled his horny beast, clutching him to his chest.

“I’ll leave you to take care of . . . whatever that is.” I chuckled. “See you Friday.”