Chapter 10
The office smells like printer toner and strong coffee. My inbox is a graveyard of unread emails, and my spreadsheet has started to blur into one long column of stress.
I tap my pen against the desk and try to focus. But the numbers won’t line up the way they usually do, and every cell I format turns into a pink flamingo in my mind.
I close my eyes. Big mistake.
Now I can hear him. That laugh. The obnoxiously cheery one that starts low and rolls upward until it hijacks every conversation within a mile radius.
I groan under my breath. This is what I get for filing that stupid noise complaint.
At the time, it felt justified. Righteous, even. A man shouldn’t have to listen to a chorus of wind chimes that sound like a séance in a crystal shop at dawn. I’d been trying to calculate quarterly projections, and every breeze was a cosmic reminder that I’d made bad choices.
But the truth? I was pissed about the flamingos. And the pool. And the way Benji lounged there like a model on his book covers, showing off his bare skin, smug grin, and scented like coconut sin.
It wasn’t about the chimes. It was about him.
He’s ridiculous. Loud. Infuriating. And he smells good. Which feels like a personal attack. You can’t hate someone who smells like that. There should be laws.
He’s the human version of a TikTok trend that should’ve died three months ago.
Every conversation feels like being hit with confetti and then lectured about skincare.
He dresses outrageously, talks too much, and apparently thinks HOA stands for Homosexuals Overacting Always.
"Carter?"
I jolt. Stacey from accounts payable peers over my cubicle wall, eyebrows raised. "You’ve been staring at your screen for five minutes. You okay?"
"Yeah," I lie, quickly clicking into an Excel sheet as if the numbers might save me. "Just… analyzing."
She tilts her head. "You’re typing into a PowerPoint."
I glance down. Sure enough. "Right. Cross-referencing."
She squints, unconvinced, then shrugs. "Okay. We’re grabbing lunch later. Don’t forget the client meeting at two."
As soon as she’s gone, I let my head drop into my hands.
I should be thinking about the fiscal year, not the guy next door who sunbathes as if he’s auditioning for a calendar shoot.
But the truth sneaks in anyway, quiet and uninvited.
Benji’s the kind of gay man I never had the courage to be.
He exists as though he’s unapologetic about taking up space. About being seen. About being himself.
Meanwhile, I’m dressed in a collared shirt and polite restraint, pretending not to notice how every part of him feels like color splashed across my carefully neutral life.
And the worst part?
I think he knows.
I try to focus on work. I really do. But every spreadsheet cell looks like his stupid sunglasses.
Every time my coworker laughs too loud, I flinch, half expecting to hear him shout something across the yard.
I’ve typed "Morningwood" into a client report twice today and had to backspace before anyone noticed.
By five o’clock, my brain’s fried. I shut my laptop, promise myself I won’t think about him again, and head home with the windows down to clear my head.
And then, naturally, the radio betrays me.
Mariah Carey’s Fantasy.
I groan, smack the steering wheel, and consider driving straight into a lake. Because all I can see is Benji smiling, sun-drunk and humming off-key as those cursed wind chimes twinkle in harmony.
She sings, "Sweet, sweet fantasy, baby," and I swear even the traffic light turns pink just to mock me.
I change the station, hit static, and go back. She’s still singing.
By the time I turn onto Cockburn Street, I’ve lost the battle. Mariah’s still crooning. My hand’s still drumming on the steering wheel as if I’m auditioning for a boy band. And there’s still a traitorous part of me thinking about sunscreen glistening on someone else’s skin.
I round the corner and see him.
Benji’s kneeling in his yard, hair pushed back messily, earbuds in. The late light hits his shoulders in a way that makes me want to file another complaint—against the sun this time. A smear of dirt streaks his arm, and somehow that’s worse. He’s supposed to be ornamental, not human.
He sees me before I can look away, lifts one hand in a lazy wave, and beams.
The breeze catches his wind chimes. The same ones that started this whole mess. They tinkle like laughter.
I lift my hand in return, mostly because ignoring him would feel too deliberate.
He mouths something I can’t hear—probably another joke—and goes back to pruning a shrub that doesn’t need pruning.
I park in my driveway and sit there a full minute, telling myself not to look again.
I look again.
He’s still there, humming, unbothered, magnetic in that infuriating way that makes me wish I’d never bought this house.
My phone pings.
Morningwood Minute: Welcome home, Carter! Don’t forget HOA meeting Thursday night!
Perfect. Just what I need—another night trapped in a room with him and his damn smirky smile flashing in my head.
The HOA meeting is already a circus the second I walk in. Half the members are arguing about whether the Block Captain initiative requires actual captains or just morally ambiguous volunteers, and the other half are fighting over the correct shade of pastel for the community sign.
And there’s Benji. Sitting in the front row, legs crossed, shades perched on his nose as if he’s moderating a runway show. He waves at me smugly.
I flop down beside him, careful not to touch, careful not to breathe wrong. After a moment, I lean just slightly closer and whisper, "Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?"
He tilts his head, smile widening. "So they can’t read my reactions."
I blink. Oh, they can read them all right. Before I can escape into the comforting anonymity of rows of folding chairs, Candace clears her throat.
"Since Carter and Benji are clearly… organized types," she says pointedly, "we thought you two might want to co-chair the clothing drive."
I choke, my grip on the paperwork I was pretending to review tightening until the pages crease. "Excuse me?"
Benji grins as if he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. "We? Oh, this is going to be fun."
"No, fun is not the correct term," I murmur.
The meeting devolves quickly, but I can feel Benji’s energy practically radiating into my lap. He’s already pulling up ideas on his phone, snapping pictures of old donation bins, and making notes as though he’s running a boutique empire.
By the end of the hour, it’s official. We’re co-chairs.
I want to cry.
A week later, I reluctantly let Benji into my house to collect clothes for the drive. He scans the closet as a treasure hunter does, ruthlessly evaluating my color-coded shirts, my neatly folded chinos, and my boring, painfully practical shoes.
"In my opinion, you should donate everything," he deadpans, scanning the row of white hangers.
"Benji!"
"Just kidding." His smile is almost infectious. "This is… actually impressive," he says, picking up a navy sweater. "But you’re missing a little pizzazz. And maybe a pineapple print or two."
I shoot him a glare. "It’s a clothing drive, not a fashion show."
His laughter feels too big for my tiny closet. "Exactly. People want practical. But I like to spice things up where I can."
I try not to notice the way his hands linger over the fabrics, or how his eyes dart around as though he’s memorizing my life one meticulously folded item at a time.
"Are you done yet?" I snap.
He looks up, seducing me with that maddening smirk. "Almost. But don’t worry—I’ll make your wardrobe exciting, Carter. Even if it kills me."
And in that moment, I realize that I’m way too invested in the man who somehow makes utility look like temptation.
Benji emerges from the closet, holding a navy V-neck sweater vest as though it’s a priceless artifact.
"Hmm," he murmurs, eyes narrowing with mock seriousness. "This one I’m keeping for myself."
Then, without warning, he slips off his shirt.
I freeze.
God, his skin. Golden in the afternoon light filtering through my blinds. Every curve, every line, every perfectly defined ridge makes my mouth water. Benji isn’t gym-jacked; he’s more naturally toned, subtly muscled and fit. Perfect.
I know I shouldn’t be staring, but I can’t stop. Not that it’s helping me concentrate.
He steps closer to the bed, casually brushing past my neatly folded shirts. Way too close. Too close for anyone’s professional comfort, let alone mine.
I glance at the mattress and try to calculate how long it’s been since I used it properly.
Counting in my head… it’s been… many months.
Longer than I want to admit. And now I’m acutely aware of Benji’s proximity, the softness of the bed, and the way he’s making that ridiculous leer as if he knows exactly what he’s doing.
"Are you seriously trying that on in my bedroom?" I manage to keep my voice lower than I’d like—mostly to avoid giving away the fact that my brain has officially evacuated.
Benji hums, sliding the sweater vest over his shoulders. "Why not? It’s the perfect light. Shows off my… assets." He strikes a pose as if he’s in a catalog.
I groan internally. Assets. Right. Because apparently my life now includes cataloging Benji’s torso in every conceivable pose.
He sits on the edge of the bed to adjust the hem, leaning just a fraction closer, and I’m acutely aware of everything—how close his leg is to mine, how every small movement seems deliberately provocative.
"Are you done yet?" I try again, sharper this time.
He looks up, smile turning wicked. "Almost. But don’t worry, Carter. I’ll return this eventually… maybe."
Damn him, I’m utterly screwed.
Benji crouches to grab a stack of folded shirts from the lower shelf, but instead of handing them to me, he fans them out like a deck of cards.
"Hmm," he says, tilting his head, "these are too boring. Navy? Chino? Carter, honey, who are you trying to impress—your accountant from 2008?"
I scowl. "They’re… practical. Neutral. Not screaming ‘look at me!’"