Chapter 17
Imake it to my own front walk and stop, irritated on principle.
Across the street. I didn’t even leave the block. I crossed twenty feet of asphalt as if it was some grand pilgrimage and nearly kissed my neighbor in a cropped gym shirt as though I'm auditioning for a streaming original called Oops, I Fell for the Loud One.
Idiot.
Unlocking my door, I step inside, then immediately shut it harder than necessary. The sound echoes through the house.
Good. Maybe the walls should be disappointed in me too.
I didn't go over there to flirt. I went over there because he'd nearly concussed himself spying on me from inside my recycling bins. Any decent person would've checked on him.
Probably.
Except somewhere between checking on him and standing in his living room, things got complicated.
I drop my keys on the counter and scrub a hand over my face.
No. That's not true. Things were already complicated. That's the part I keep trying to ignore.
This is exactly how it starts. The cliché. The one where the supposedly sensible guy spends months insisting he's immune, only to get blindsided by someone he never saw coming.
No. Absolutely not.
The trouble is, that argument would've been a lot more convincing before I crossed the street.
I pace my living room, jaw tight. The problem isn't that I want Benji. I've known that for a while now. The problem is that walking away felt wrong.
I stop in front of the window and immediately regret it.
Across the street, his lights are still on.
He doesn't look outside. Doesn't text. Doesn't manufacture some absurd excuse to knock on my door.
Which is irritating. Because I've spent weeks convincing myself Benji Stewart is impossible to ignore, and apparently, he's perfectly capable of leaving me alone.
I lean back against the counter and stare at my quiet kitchen. This is why I don't do this. I like knowing how things end. I like plans. Routines. Predictability.
Benji is none of those things.
He's noise and color and opinions and somehow the only person in this neighborhood who says exactly what he's thinking.
He should drive me insane.
Instead, I can't stop replaying the look on his face when I showed up at his door.
He wasn’t smug or flirtatious, as is his default mode. No, Benji looked relieved. Like he was genuinely glad to see me.
I open the fridge, close it, and open it again as though clarity might be hiding behind the mustard.
Nothing. I grab a beer instead. The first swallow is terrible.
Good. At least something in my life is behaving as expected.
My brain supplies images without permission. His smile. His laugh. The way he got quiet when I got serious. The way he looked at me when I said I wanted to be there.
That part lingers. Not the almost-kiss. Not even the attraction. The trust. And that's somehow worse.
I drain half the bottle and set it down. Attraction is easy to explain. What I'm feeling now isn't.
I switch off the living room light and head for bed, already planning to avoid him tomorrow. Which, if I'm being honest, feels a lot like planning to fail.
By the time Saturday rolls around, I've stopped pretending Benji Stewart is a temporary distraction.
Unfortunately, I haven't come up with a replacement explanation.
The chili cook-off takes over the clubhouse and spills onto the lawn, a sanctioned disaster of folding tables, crockpots plugged into extension cords that definitely violate some code, and handwritten labels that shout confidence with absolutely no credentials to back it up.
The air smells of cumin, onions, and competitive insecurity.
I arrive early. I always arrive early. It’s a character flaw. Benji arrives exactly on time. Naturally, he makes it look like an entrance.
He sets his crockpot down two tables from mine. Two. As if that's a coincidence. As if he didn't calculate the distance with military precision and decide psychological warfare was the appropriate setting for a neighborhood chili cook-off.
He’s wearing fitted jeans that highlight the swell of his perfect ass and a black button-down patterned with tiny red chili peppers. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms in a way that feels aggressively intentional.
But it's the hat that nearly takes me out. A flaming pepper decorates the front above the words: HOT STUFF
His chili sits in a shiny red crockpot labeled BENJI’S FIVE-ALARM BAD DECISIONS.
I stare at it, trying to determine whether he actually made the chili or if he wandered into a restaurant kitchen, flirted with a chef, and left with a recipe and three new admirers.
He catches me looking.
“Problem?” he asks pleasantly.
“What store did you buy that from?”
“You mean the ingredients?”
"No, I mean the chili cooked entirely by some restaurant."
Benji presses a hand to his chest. "Wow. That's a serious accusation."
"You know what you did."
"Oh, sweetheart." He shakes his head. "You should be more confident in your own chili. This insecurity is heartbreaking to watch."
"I'm not insecure."
His smirk is spicier than his shirt. "Sure. Run along back to your table. You’re blocking my line."
"What line?"
"The one where people come tell me how handsome I am."
"That line doesn't exist."
He glances past me. "Oh, look. First customer."
I turn to see an elderly woman walking toward us.
Benji beams. "The people have spoken."
The urge to knock his crockpot off the table is strong, but I suppress it and return to my station.
The girls hover immediately. Kiki claps her hands like she's watching a prize fight. Shania is already collecting cash from people. Malia is filming something that will absolutely end up in the group chat.
"Ohhh," Kiki sings. "Chili rivalry. I love this season."
"There is no rivalry," I say with all the neutrality I can muster.
Benji smiles at her. "There absolutely is."
I ladle my chili into sample cups with controlled precision. He does it with flair. We don’t look at each other, but we are aggressively aware of each other.
Someone tastes mine and nods approvingly. Benji arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow. Someone tastes his and groans dramatically. I refuse to react.
"This one has depth," Candace says, sampling mine.
"Mine has drama," Benji counters without missing a beat.
"I don't trust chili described as dramatic."
"You eat unseasoned chicken."
That is a lie, and he knows it.
Judging begins. People circulate. Compliments are given. Lines form.
I notice—against my will—that Benji's line is longer.
I also notice—far more irritatingly—that he hasn't looked at me once.
Not to gloat. Not to smirk. Not to silently celebrate whatever witchcraft he's apparently hiding in that crockpot.
Nothing.
He's busy talking to residents, charming judges, and generally behaving like a man participating in a chili cook-off instead of a psychological warfare campaign.
Which should be a relief. Instead, I find myself checking anyway. Then again. And when I realize I'm waiting for him to look back, I become profoundly annoyed with myself.
I sample his chili out of spite. It’s good. Annoyingly good. Balanced heat, layers of flavor, and a finish that lingers just long enough to make me resent the experience.
I hate him.
"You look upset," Benji says smugly.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"Your left eyebrow is doing the thing."
My hand immediately goes to my face.
His grin widens. "Oh my God, there it is."
I drop my hand. "I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Unfortunately, he sounds far too confident about that.
"You're enjoying this," I accuse.
"I enjoy many things." His lips curl with satisfaction. "Watching you pretend not to compete is one of them."
"I’m not competing with you."
He leans closer, voice low enough that only I can hear. "Then why do you look nervous?"
"I'm not nervous."
"Interesting."
I narrow my eyes.
He beams.
"See? That's your competitive face."
I should walk away. Instead, I stay exactly where I am.
Benji's gaze drops to my shirt. "You know you're tempting fate with that thing, right?"
I glance down at my plain white shirt.
"How?"
"It's white."
"So?"
"It's basically begging to be stained."
"Pretty sure I can eat chili without wearing it."
Benji chuckles, and I’m positive I can hear him mocking my words under his breath. I can feel him mocking me. The sound follows me all the way back to my table.
Which is irritating. Mostly because I have the distinct feeling he's about to be proven right.
The girls notice everything. Candace actually fans herself. Kiki stage-whispers, "If they don’t kiss soon, I’m filing a complaint."
Benji straightens, addressing the room. "Everyone remember—taste responsibly. Hydrate. Some of us brought heat."
I roll my eyes.
He finally looks at me then. Not just a glance or the casual acknowledgment we've been pretending is enough all afternoon.
He looks, his mouth curves, and a flash of something pleased and entirely too knowing settles in his expression. Then he winks.
My brain short-circuits.
The spoon tilts.
A dark streak of chili slides down the front of my white shirt like fate has finally gotten tired of waiting for me to embarrass myself.
Benji inhales a bit too sharply for a man who just predicted this with smug confidence.
I stare down at myself. Then back up at him. "Do not say one word."
His lips disappear between his teeth. The effort alone tells me he's moments from death.
"Benji."
His shoulders shake. "I didn't say anything."
"You inhaled."
"That was concern."
"It was delight."
"A little of both."
The girls explode. Kiki makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a referee's whistle. Candace grabs Shania's arm. Malia doubles over laughing.
"WHITE," Malia wheezes. "YOU WORE WHITE."
"I warned you," Benji says, finally losing the battle with his smile. "Classic rookie mistake."
"This is not funny." I’m painfully aware of how warm my face feels.
He steps closer before I can stop him. Close enough that I catch the scent of spice and something clean underneath it. Soap, maybe. Something unfair.
"You’ve got it right here." He gestures vaguely toward my chest.
"I can manage," I snap.
"I’m sure you can, but given your track record with liquids today…"
I grab napkins. Too many. They tear immediately. Chili smears instead of lifts.
Benji watches, eyes flicking between my hands and the spreading stain, his mouth tilted as though he’s enjoying this far too much.
"Hold still," he says, then pauses. "Or don’t. I like the suspense."
"Why are you like this?" I mutter.
"Why are you so deeply affected by chili?"
The girls are still watching. I can feel it. I hate it. I also can’t step away.
Benji finally reaches out, pinching a clean napkin between his fingers to blot the edge of the stain. His knuckles brush my ribs. Accidentally. Definitely intentionally.
My breath stutters. His eyes flick up to mine. There it is again. That sharp, pleased look. Not triumphant. Curious.
"Well," he says quietly, withdrawing his hand, "guess the shirt was tempting fate after all."
I swallow. "You planned that."
"I absolutely did not. But I’m delighted."
The moment stretches with heat and awareness.
From behind us, Kiki sighs dramatically. "I swear to God, if you two don’t sort this out soon—"
Benji steps back, smooth as ever, breaking the spell. "You should change." He keeps his voice casual. "Before it sets."
"Right. Yes. Obviously." I check my table, but there’s no line. "But what about the contest?"
Benji waves his hand dismissively. "You’re losing anyway, might as well save the shirt."
I stare at him with narrowed eyes. "I’m not losing."
"Trust me. Cut your losses. Go change."
I hesitate because I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. But I also don’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon smelling like cumin and humiliation.
Behind us, Candace stage-whispers, "He’s flirting."
"I am not," Benji and I say at the exact same time.
The girls lose it.
Benji laughs, quick and loud, then reins it in as he remembers the rules of whatever game he’s playing. "Five minutes. You’ll be back before they even miss you."
It shouldn’t irritate me, but it does. I grab a paper towel, dab uselessly once more, then straighten. "This isn’t over."
His eyes spark. "Nothing good ever is."
I head for the clubhouse bathrooms, acutely aware of his gaze following me. Of the way the room seems louder without him beside me. Of how ridiculous it is that a chili cook-off has turned into a standoff.
Against my better judgment, I glance back. Benji is already talking to someone else, easy and animated, as if he wasn’t just inches from me a moment ago.
Which, somehow, is worse.
In the privacy of the bathroom stall, I peel the stained shirt over my head and use the plaid overshirt as my main. By the time I emerge, I realize the truth I’ve been avoiding all afternoon:
I don’t just want to win.
I want his attention.
And the worst part is, I don't think Benji Stewart is competing with me anymore.
I think he's waiting for me to catch up.