Chapter 13
Ibarely make it across the street before the spiral hits.
Not a cute spiral. Not a "hmm, interesting plot twist development" spiral. A full-bodied, arms-flailing, internal monologue Broadway production.
Okay. Fine. Great. Wonderful.
I was invited into his home. Into his bedroom. I touched his shirts. He wanted to touch me. And then—bam. Emotional fire drill. Exit stage left. Curtains and applause.
So, let’s break it down. For clarity. For science.
Possibility one: Carter Reed is straight.
Unlikely. I have eyes.
Possibility two: Carter Reed is gay but terrified of joy.
Strong contender.
Possibility three: Carter Reed wanted me until he didn’t, and now I’m the anecdote he tells his therapist about "a lot of neighbor energy."
Rude, but possible.
Possibility four: Carter Reed wanted me too much and panicked.
Ding ding ding. Winner. Print it on a mug.
Yes. That’s the one. That has narrative symmetry. That feels correct in my bones.
I nod to myself, satisfied, even though I have zero evidence and one bruised ego.
Because here’s the thing—when he told me to leave, his voice wasn’t cold. It wasn’t dismissive. It was tight. Controlled. A man slamming the brakes because the road ahead looked suspiciously fun and fraught with sexual peril.
Which means this wasn’t rejection.
This was fear. And fear, as we all know, is just attraction wearing a beige cardigan.
Unlocking my door, I kick it shut behind me and immediately begin pacing. I light a candle. I don’t remember buying it, but it smells like eucalyptus and spite, so it feels appropriate.
"Okay. So we’re doing this."
Because if Carter thinks pulling away is going to make me less present, he’s severely underestimated my commitment to proximity.
I will not chase.
I will not pout.
I will not blast music or install a lawn ornament shaped like a gnome mid-thrust.
No. I will be helpful.
I will be civil.
I will be everywhere.
Weaponized compliance clicks into place like a seatbelt.
Every committee Carter joins? I will join first.
Every initiative he touches? I will improve it.
Every HOA meeting he attends? I will sit one chair closer and bring color-coded folders.
And I’ll be sure to look my best while doing it!
I will follow every rule so perfectly it becomes suspicious.
He wants distance? I’ll give him sanctioned proximity and an itemized agenda.
I grin at my reflection in the hallway mirror—bright, composed, and absolutely unhinged.
"Good luck, Carter Reed," I murmur. "You should’ve just kissed me."
I execute the run-in flawlessly.
Which is to say, it looks accidental, but it’s not. I time it to the minute—trash day plus Carter’s predictable schedule equals inevitability.
I step outside with a canvas tote and a neutral expression. No accessories that scream statement. Just a fitted tee and equally fitted shorts in soft colors. Effortless. Devastating. Casual in a way that should be illegal without a permit.
Carter’s already at the curb in a boring business casual ensemble that has me mentally yawning, jaw set as if he’s bracing for impact.
I give him a curt nod and a smile as bland as his blue tie. "Morning," I say at normal volume. My tone is neighborly, almost disinterested.
He blinks once, then again, like he’s buffering. "Morning," he replies cautiously.
Excellent. I ask a safe question. "Did you remember to separate your recycling? They take that seriously in this neighborhood."
He exhales a fraction. "Yeah. The information was part of the welcome packet I received when I moved in."
"Good to know." I adjust my grip on the tote. "You settling in okay?"
Another pause. He isn’t prepared for this version of me. No commentary. No innuendo. No reference to folding clothes in his bedroom while imagining terrible, wonderful things.
"Yeah," he says. "Mostly."
I hum, thoughtful. "That’s good."
And then I do the unthinkable—I stop talking.
The silence stretches between us, and I don’t rush to fill it. I don’t sparkle. I don’t perform. I let him sit in it.
Carter shifts his weight. His eyes flick to my shirt, my face, then away again. He clears his throat.
"You, uh. You busy today?"
Oh.
Oh.
I keep my expression mild. Pleasant. "Not really. On my way to fix these unfortunate toes." I wiggle them in my slides for emphasis. "Gotta keep my options open in case this graphic design thing doesn’t pan out, and I need to pivot to selling feet pics."
Color rises in his cheeks as his memory catches up to him. I don’t help him out of it. I smile. Not wide. Not smug. Just enough.
"Well," I say, stepping back, "I should get going. Nice seeing you." I turn away before he can recover.
Behind me, his hesitation becomes a living entity. I can feel the moment he realizes something’s shifted, and he doesn’t know how or why. That unsettled pause where control slips, just a fraction.
I don’t look back. I don’t need to. Carter Reed is off-balance. And I clock it instantly.
Interesting.
If you’re going to reject me, Carter Reed, you’re going to have to do it again. Slower this time. And to my face.
The pool smells like charcoal, chlorine, and poor decisions.
I arrive late on purpose. Not fashionably—strategically.
The barbecue is already in full swing. The couple from Rut Deep Drive are arguing over tongs.
The newly divorced dad from Bushy Trail is aggressively shaking a bottle of sunscreen like it owes him money.
A fat dollop finally splooges out across his lap, and I bite back my laugh as his scruffy cheeks turn redder than a fresh sunburn.
Kiki’s kids are running laps at unsafe speeds, which tells me no one is watching them closely enough.
Again. I glance at my friend and see her face buried in a smutty paperback. One of mine, I bet.
I strip down to my swim shorts without ceremony.
They’re red, short, and fitted. The kind of shorts that don’t apologize for toned thighs. I can feel the shift immediately. The pause. The awareness. Even without looking, I know Carter’s here.
I sit on the edge of a lounger and start rubbing sunscreen into my arms. Slow. Practical. No eye contact. If I were petty—and I am—I’d turn and catch him watching. But I don’t.
Weaponized normalcy means discipline.
"Just a heads up," I say casually, still focused on my shoulder, "you might want to steer clear of the shallow end."
Carter’s voice comes from my right. Too close. "Why?"
"Kiki’s kids have that look again. The one that says they’ve already peed, they’re thinking about peeing again, and they’re fully prepared to do it. They’ve already knocked back four juice boxes in the twenty minutes I’ve been here."
There’s a beat of silence before he says, "Good to know."
I finally glance up and catch him staring at my feet. My pedicure, to be precise. The pale blue polish says I have opinions but also boundaries.
Then his gaze betrays him. It slides and lingers over my chest, my stomach, and my thighs. He looks away too fast. Silence stretches heavily.
I don’t fill it, but I acknowledge it with a pointed look.
Carter shifts, clears his throat, and slides his shades over his eyes, presumably to hide from me.
"So," he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near strained, "I saw you signed up for… whatever’s coming up next."
I hum, as if I’m thinking. "Did I?"
"The… uh. The power wash demonstration." He gestures vaguely.
"Oh, that." I cap the sunscreen and finally look up at him towering over me. "Yeah. Figured I’d help. They promised Chuck really knows how to handle his stream."
His eyes flick to my face, then away again. "You’re very… involved."
"I like to contribute." I smile, trying not to laugh. "Don’t you?"
He studies me as though I’ve changed languages mid-sentence.
"Right," he says. "Of course."
Another pause.
Behind us, someone yells that the burgers are burning. Between us, the tension sits, unbothered and unmoving.
I lean back on my hands, let the sun do its thing, and say nothing. Carter stands there a second longer than necessary.
"Anyway, I—uh. Enjoy the pool."
"You too," I say easily.
He walks away. I don’t watch him go. I don’t need to.
Because I feel it—the imbalance. The recalibration. The quiet panic of a man who expected noise and got composure instead.
So. Fucking. Delicious.
The universe, unfortunately, does not allow me to enjoy a quiet victory.
"Benji!" Candace calls from the grill area, waving a spatula as though she’s flagging down a helicopter. "Tell Carter he can’t hide over there. We need another body for cornhole."
Carter freezes mid-step. I see it happen. The way his shoulders tense as though he’s bracing for impact. I don’t look at him. That’s the trick.
"Sounds democratic," I say mildly. "But I believe avoidance is his brand."
A few laughs ripple through the group.
Carter exhales through his nose and turns back, because of course he does. The man is constitutionally incapable of appearing rude. He walks over, stopping a careful distance away from me, eyes still doing that thing where they pretend not to know where my legs are.
"I was busy," he says.
"Busy," I repeat, nodding. "Right."
I finally glance at him, just a flicker, and catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck. He looks unfairly good today. Sunglasses, a crisp T-shirt, and sleeves just short enough to suggest biceps. Annoying.
Cornhole teams are assigned with zero regard for fairness or skill. Carter ends up across from me. He tosses his first beanbag and misses. Hugely.
"Wind," I say helpfully.
"There is no wind," he mutters.
"Fine, a strong breeze then," I clarify.
He shoots me a look, and I smile back politely.
Carter bends to pick up another beanbag, and I hate—hate—how my brain notes the line of his back, the way his shirt pulls taut across his broad shoulders. I tear my gaze away and focus on the game. Weaponized normalcy. Stay the course.
"You’re quiet today," he blurts, low enough that only I hear.
I toss my bag and sink it clean. "Am I?"
"Yes. It’s… noticeable."
I shrug. "People contain multitudes."
Carter studies me as if solving a puzzle. "You usually narrate them."
Ah, there it is. The crack. My silence is getting under his skin.
Before I can respond, Candace gasps. We both turn. Then Kiki screams, "WHY IS THERE A FLOATING DIAPER—"
The moment shatters. Carter laughs. A real laugh, surprised and unguarded. I feel it settle in my chest like a dare.
The pool gets cleared. Again. Someone yells about chlorine levels. Someone else insists it’s "just a little kid pee" as if that’s a measurable unit. Towels are grabbed. People scatter toward chairs and shade and drinks that suddenly feel necessary.
Carter and I end up by the beverage table. Alone. Briefly.
He reaches for the cooler at the same time I do. Our hands collide—knuckles, fingers, heat. It’s not accidental. But not entirely intentional either.
"Sorry," he says immediately.
I don’t move my hand. Neither does he.
"It’s fine," I say calmly, as if my pulse isn’t doing something deeply unhelpful.
Up close, he smells of soap and sunblock. No performance. No excess. Just him. His sunglasses are off now, eyes exposed and searching my face as if he’s trying to solve a problem he doesn’t want the answer to.
He swallows. "I didn’t mean to—" He stops. Restarts. "The other night."
I wait.
He exhales. "I shouldn’t have sent you away like that."
Oh.
I let my fingers slip free, deliberately gentle. "You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re also allowed to keep it."
He nods, relieved and disappointed all at once. "I know."
Silence tickles my ears. Too many things left unsaid crowd the space.
"I just…" He trails off, jaw tightening. "I’m not great at this."
"I know," I say softly.
That’s when his eyes flick to my mouth. Just once. That’s all I need.
Someone calls his name. Candace, maybe. Or Shania. The spell breaks. He steps back, already closing himself off again, putting the armor back on piece by piece.
"I should—" he starts.
"Go," I finish for him. "I know."
He hesitates. Then quietly says, "You look… nice today."
It’s not smooth. It’s not practiced. It’s sincere.
I can’t hide my smile. "So do you, Carter."
He leaves, and I stare as he goes. And as the afternoon hums back to life around me, one thing is very, very clear: He’s thinking about me.
Which means the war phase is officially over… Mostly.
Now it’s a waiting game.