Chapter 8
The HOA calls it the Morningwood Splash Bash, which sounds less like a community event and more like an adult film.
I show up late on purpose. Less small talk. Less forced cheer. Less chance of someone cornering me with a cup of lukewarm sangria to discuss the "community spirit" of Morningwood.
The moment I enter through the gate, the place is bedlam. Kids cannonballing into the deep end. Someone blasting nineties pop from a portable speaker. Adults pretending to supervise while day drinking.
And then there’s Benji.
He’s lounging beside the only available chair, a prime spot near the poolside bathrooms and vending machines, with the kind of posture that says he’s both unbothered and perfectly aware of how good he looks being unbothered.
There’s a second chair beside him. Empty, naturally.
"Aren’t you glad I saved you a seat?" he asks as soon as I approach, not even looking up from his magazine.
"Glad’s not the word I’d use," I mutter, but I sit anyway. Because what else am I supposed to do, stand there looking like the antisocial neighbor who hates summer? (Which, for the record, I am.)
Benji flips a page with exaggerated casualness. "I was starting to think you’d bail. People were taking bets."
"On what?"
"Whether you’d actually show up or fake a migraine."
I wish. The HOA president is wearing a sun visor that says ‘Let’s Get Soaking!’ I’m rethinking every decision that led me here.
I glance sideways. Benji’s wearing aviators, the reflection showing nothing but blue sky and sunlight glinting off the water. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or not, but it feels like he is.
"I had work."
"Mm. Spreadsheets?"
"Budgets."
"How thrilling." He says it as if he means how tragic.
I try to ignore the way my eyes wander. The sun hits his smooth, tan chest, the faintest sheen of sunscreen glimmering as though he was poured out of a coconut-scented fantasy.
His abs tighten when he shifts to reach for his drink, and I catch myself staring before I can stop it.
His tiny Speedo printed with pineapples doesn’t help, either. It cups his junk beautifully.
Thank God for shades that hide the direction of my gaze. I don’t have to like him to like looking at him.
"So," he says, smirk audible, "enjoying the sun, or just showing off?"
I blink. "That’s my line."
"Then say it better next time."
I bite back a laugh, even though I hate that I’m enjoying this. "Nice turnout."
He hums lazily, sounding pleased. "Better than last year. Nobody’s lit a grill in the cabana yet."
Around us, the noise crescendos. Kiki’s kids are playing some questionable poolside game involving half a pool noodle and a water gun.
One of the moms shrieks when a beach ball flies into the snack table.
Someone’s Bluetooth speaker switches from Toxic to Barbie Girl and the party collectively loses its mind.
Benji looks delighted. "Ah, the sound of suburbia."
"Sounds like a migraine."
"Sounds like fun, if you’d unclench a little."
Before I can answer, Kiki’s youngest lets out a squeal. I glance over—and immediately regret it.
The kid is waving something pink and rubbery through the air.
Benji nearly inhales his drink. "Oh my God, not again."
Kiki sees it and lunges off her chair. "NOPE."
Too late.
The thing bounces off the pool float, wobbling obscenely in the sunlight.
Candace shrieks. "Get it before it hits the filter!"
I stare in exhausted disbelief as three grown women dive into action. Beside me, Benji is fully crying with laughter.
"Isn't that Eunice's—"
Benji lowers his glasses, watching the drama unfold with a smirk. "Yup."
I sink a little lower in my chair. "Your neighborhood is insane."
He shrugs. "It’s never boring."
I study him again. Sunlight catches in the water droplets on his shoulder. He laughs as the mayhem unfolds, head tilted, smile bright.
It hits me like an aftershock—he’s beautiful, and I hate that I think so.
Before I can think of something neutral to say, Candace’s husband lurches by, half-drunk and too enthusiastic about tossing a football.
"Heads up!" someone shouts.
I turn just in time for the ball to clip my shoulder. I flail, lose my balance, and topple backward into the pool. The world goes cold. Chlorine burns my nose. I resurface, sputtering and blinking through my hair.
Benji laughs so hard he folds in half, shoulders shaking.
"You think this is funny?" I bark.
He lifts his sunglasses, smirking down at me like sin itself. "Oh, absolutely. It’s the most fun I’ve had all week."
I want to snap something back, something scathing. But he lowers his glasses again and says, quietly, "You really should smile more. It doesn’t hurt that much."
It’s almost sincere. Almost. And for one dumb second, I do smile.
Then I dunk under again, just so he doesn’t see it.
I resurface, blinking through chlorinated water. My hair’s plastered to my forehead, my shirt’s clinging to my chest, and Benji is still laughing.
"I could’ve drowned."
"In four feet of water? You’d have to try."
I open my mouth to argue but then bite the words back with a sickened gasp.
A warmth spreads around my knees. Then my thighs. Then—no. No, no, no.
A faint yellow cloud begins to bloom around me, radiant and horrifying.
"Oh my God!" someone screams.
The party erupts in chaos. Kids shriek. Adults scramble for the edge. Someone yells, "Get out of the pool!" like it’s a shark attack.
Benji’s face goes from amused to stricken as he realizes what’s happening. "Oh, sweet merciful Beyoncé."
I freeze, staring down at the spreading glow of betrayal. Kiki’s youngest stands on the edge of the pool, guiltily clutching their swim trunks.
"You’ve gotta be kidding me," I whisper.
Benji snorts. Loudly. Then loses the battle completely, collapsing into hysterics.
"Don’t—" I point at him, water dripping from my finger. "Don’t you dare laugh."
He wheezes, "I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing near you," and dissolves again.
I drag myself out of the pool, dripping, mortified, and very likely irradiated. My dignity trails behind me like a wet towel.
Benji tries to compose himself and fails. "You—you look like you just survived Chernobyl."
"You’re enjoying this way too much," I mutter, wringing out my shirt.
He hands me his towel—hot pink and patterned with cartoon eggplant emojis, naturally. "Here. Consider it a peace offering. You know… from the neighborhood."
I take it because there’s nothing else to do. "I’m burning this later."
"Sure you are," he says, smiling.
As I turn to go, he calls after me. "Hey, Carter?"
I glance back.
"Next time, maybe bring a swimsuit."
I scowl at him. My scowl does nothing. He doesn’t even flinch. He’s probably staring at me behind those shades, reading my reaction like a smug little manual: Carter, the perfectly composed finance guy, flustered by a man in novelty swimwear and a sunlit grin.
I drag a hand over my face. I am not supposed to notice him like this. I am not supposed to think about how his laugh makes the insanity almost… endurable.
I wrap the pink eggplant towel around my waist, but it doesn’t hide the fact that I am utterly humiliated. I mean, yes, it’s biologically hilarious. Yes, the kids were innocent, but somehow. I am the epicenter of every mortifying detail in Morningwood Estates.
And Benji… oh, of course, Benji… is still leaning back in his lounger, arms crossed, sunglasses sliding down just enough for me to see those ridiculous, sparkling eyes. That smirk isn’t going anywhere, is it? It’s permanent, like some kind of HOA-approved monument to misdeeds and charm.
I try to focus on something else. The sun?
The water? The sheer absurdity of everyone else yelling and scrambling?
Nope. My brain keeps circling back to his bronze chest, faintly glistening and annoyingly perfect.
To his wide shoulders and his infuriatingly relaxed posture.
The way he tilts his head, as if he’s always in on a joke I haven’t heard yet.
"Hey," he calls, voice teasing, "you okay there?"
I glare. "I’m fine," I say, but my voice is shaky, betraying me.
"You’re shivering."
"I’m… wet."
"Mm-hmm." He sips from his tumbler, pinky extended as if he’s the most civilized disaster in the world.
I grit my teeth, turning away, tugging the towel tighter. I feel like a statue in a museum of ridicule, and he’s the curator, laughing silently at every exhibit.
And yet… despite the heat, the shame, and the public humiliation, I feel a flicker of something else.
Intrigue. Curiosity. Maybe even a hint of enjoyment, the kind that makes me want to keep my eyes on him, even though every rational part of me screams to run inside and hide until the chlorine burns the urine out of my hair.
I curse under my breath. Goddamn it, Benji.