Chapter 5
Carter stomps back to his house, aggravated and growly, and I watch him go, totally unfazed.
Shania fans herself dramatically. "Well. He’s… intense."
Malia laughs. "Doesn’t look like he’s buying your charm, Benj."
I snort, flipping my shades down to hide the way my face is still a little too warm.
"Please. That’s just how gays flirt. He loves me."
Candace’s lips twitch. "He looked like he wanted to strangle you."
"Same thing," I say breezily. "Some of us just express affection through homicidal vibes."
They all laugh, but it’s thin. They’re already looking across the street again, watching Carter carry boxes inside, muscles flexing under his boring gray T-shirt.
Whatever. He’s a boxer-briefs guy. I’d bet my entire x-rated manga collection there isn't a jockstrap in his entire underwear drawer. I glance down at the smooth, tanned expanse of my chest, framed perfectly by the purple shirt, and grin like a man who absolutely didn’t just get roasted in front of half the HOA.
I wave goodbye to the girls and head inside, hips swinging because if I’m going down in flames, I’m at least doing it with rhythm.
The door shuts behind me, and the smile slips right off my face.
"Oh my God," I mutter to the empty house, dragging a hand down my face. "He thinks I’m a clown."
Technically, he’s not wrong.
But I’m a clown with Adobe Creative Suite and a loyal following of romance authors who panic-email me things like, ‘Can you make him look more unhinged but still hot?’
Whatever, Carter doesn’t get it. To him, success is a Microsoft certification and boring shoes.
My phone buzzes with the Morningwood Minute.
Kiki: Benj tell the truth. He’s hot, right??
Benji: He's mid. Like gas station coffee.
Shania: Lies. We saw you check out his arms.
Benji: I was assessing symmetry.
Malia: Sure you were
Candace: I give it a week before y’all make out at the pool.
What’s wrong with these chicks? Did they forget they'd added Carter to the thread? I’m not discussing my crushing defeat as he reads it with glee while snacking on popcorn!
Donna H: Hate is just love with more cardio
Great. Just great. Now, randos are commenting on my demise.
Ruth from Woodpecker Lane: Anyone have extra folding chairs for the block party?
Nancy C: Mr. Pickles is home! Found him in someone’s garage. Smelled like mimosas.
Kiki: Oh, he was def in Benji’s house again.
Benji: He's a cat of culture and refined taste.
I toss the phone onto the couch and flop down beside it, glancing out the window toward Carter’s place.
His blinds are shut, as if he’s so interesting he must keep his life under wraps.
As if! He probably folds his T-shirts with a ruler and keeps his spices alphabetized.
The man looks as if he irons his dish towels.
And yet… There was that moment, just one, when he almost smiled. Before I said something too clever for my own good. A moment where my stomach clenched in fiery anticipation.
I groan and pull a pillow over my face. "He’s immune," I mumble into the cotton. "He’s a gay man who doesn’t like me. That’s unnatural."
Still, a spark zips through me—annoyance, curiosity, and maybe a little too much intrigue.
I peek from under the pillow and catch the faintest flicker of light from his window.
Maybe he’s unpacking. Maybe he’s looking this way. Maybe—
"Whatever," I say again, just to shut myself up. "Boxer-briefs guy has no idea who he’s dealing with."
Fine. He’s unflappable. I can be unbothered. I’ve survived exes with Spotify playlists named "Benji’s Poor Decisions." I can handle one stoic neighbor with a stick up his—
Nope. Positive energy. Manifestation.
I march to the mirror, adjust my shirt, and tell my reflection, "You are not desperate for validation from some beige man with commitment issues and the emotional range of an unsalted cracker."
The reflection looks skeptical.
Rude.
My phone buzzes again—probably the group thread still dissecting my humiliation—but no. It’s a notification from the neighborhood app:
Carter R. posted on the "Morningwood Marketplace"
Free: Plastic flamingos, slightly damp.
I nearly choke on my own dignity.
The sun’s just peeking over the rooftops, spilling golden light across lawns that are way too perfect. And me? I’m running. Well… jogging with purpose. Sexy, casual, and mostly effortless.
I’ve got my bold patterned shorts on—cheerful without being obnoxious—and a loose T-shirt that flutters just enough to suggest abs exist somewhere beneath it. I glance at Carter’s house from a safe distance—just in case. Not that I’m trying to impress him. I’m totally not.
Halfway down the street, I pull out my water bottle for some ‘refreshing spritz action’ because hydration is sexy and also because I need an excuse to pause and flex subtly.
I squeeze too hard. A fine spray arcs over my head… and lands directly in my mouth.
I choke, cough, gag, and spray water everywhere, down my shirt and onto the sidewalk. Probably straight into someone’s flowerbed.
Perfect.
I sputter, waving my arms in distress. Apparently, I can’t run and drink at the same time.
Carter’s blinds are open. Of course, they are. Of course.
I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to look nonchalant, which looks exactly like a man mid-choke doing interpretive dance. I wipe my soaked shirt with my hand, hoping nobody notices.
"Sexy," I mutter to myself. "Subtle. Totally subtle. Not embarrassing at all."
I glance again at Carter’s house. Maybe he’s watching. Maybe he’s judging. Maybe he’s secretly… impressed?
I shake my head. No. Dangerous thought. Dangerous, but… fun.
I decide on one last flourish: to sprint past his driveway as if it’s a slow-motion magazine cover, chest forward, arms pumping, and hair sticking annoyingly to my damp forehead.
Halfway through my grand finale, I trip slightly on a crack in the sidewalk and almost face-plant.
Yes, I’m living my best chaotic, very public, and slightly humiliating life. And yes. Boxer-briefs guy better notice—or at least appreciate the effort.
I hit the end of the block and finally slow to a staggered walk, gasping for air as though I’ve just survived a marathon. My shirt is plastered to my chest, water dripping off my nose. I’m trying to convince myself I meant to do all of this.
"Uh… you good there?"
I freeze. His voice is calm, dry, and totally unimpressed. Carter stands on his porch with one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans, the other holding a perfectly folded towel.
"I—uh—yes!" I sputter, waving vaguely. "I’m… fine. Totally fine. No emergency services required."
Carter tilts his head. "You sure? Because I was about to call 911."
I choke back a laugh, and maybe some water still lingering in my throat. "Really? That’s… sweet. Thoughtful. Overly responsible."
He steps off the porch, holding the towel as if it were a peace offering. "Here. You might want this."
I grab it, clinging as if it’s a lifeline. "Thanks… I think."
Carter squints at me, clearly trying to figure out if I’m actually competent or just spectacularly ridiculous. "You’re… dramatic," he deadpans.
"Dramatic is my brand."
I strike a pose that probably looks more like a wet, flailing bird than intentional flair and dab at my chest with the towel, trying not to think about how he’s standing there, arms crossed, casually witnessing my public humiliation.
"You might want to stick with speed walking next time instead of running," he adds, stepping back toward the safety of his porch.
"Oh, absolutely." My voice is tight with faux dignity. "Lesson learned. Safety first."
Inside, my inner monologue screams: He noticed! He actually noticed!
Carter just sips his coffee and watches me as if I’m a mildly irritating neighborhood exhibit.
And somewhere in that tension, I realize… this is going to be fun.