Chapter 20
Ido not pace.
I stretch.
There is a difference.
Pacing is anxious. Pacing is undignified. Stretching is deliberate. Stretching is what someone does when they’ve just been kissed in their foyer by a man who alphabetizes his spice rack and then walked home pretending his legs weren’t shaking.
I roll my shoulders. Lift my arms. Twist at the waist.
My reflection watches me from the hallway mirror—hair slightly mussed, mouth still a little swollen. I look pleased. Annoyingly so.
"Well, that happened."
Carter Reed wants me bad. He wants this dick—er—ass? At least, I hope he does. Is he even a top? He better be, ‘cause I sure as shit am a bottom. He gets that about me, right? It’s obvious?
I replay it nonstop. Not the kiss itself, but the moment after. The way Carter didn’t bolt. The way he stayed, breathing like he’d run a mile, eyes dark and undecided and absolutely ruined.
That part? I savor.
I pad into the kitchen, open the fridge, and stare into it without seeing anything. I’m not hungry. I’m wired. My entire nervous system is doing jazz hands.
I did not expect him to come over tonight. That’s the part that keeps looping.
Carter doesn’t act on impulse. He schedules impulse. He color-codes it. If he showed up at my door, it wasn’t because he lost control. It was because he ran out of excuses.
Interesting.
Dangerous.
Thrilling.
I lean back against the counter and let myself feel it—just for a second. The want. The satisfaction. The terrifying little bloom of hope I absolutely refuse to name.
No. We’re not doing that.
Hope leads to expectations. Expectations lead to disappointment. Disappointment leads to dramatic monologues, and I’ve promised myself I’m only allowed one per quarter.
Instead, I do what I do best. I plan.
Not revenge—this isn’t that. Not pursuit, either. Chasing him would spook him, and I didn’t get this far by ignoring the temperament of the creature in front of me.
No, this requires finesse.
Carter kissed me because I didn’t ask him to. Because I stopped performing. Because I gave him space and let him step into it.
So that’s the move.
I will be normal.
Aggressively normal.
I will wave when I see him. I will not linger.
I will attend meetings and not sit next to him.
I will let him wonder if the kiss meant as much to me as it clearly did to him.
I grin at the thought, unable to help myself.
"Oh, Carter, you are going to hate this."
I glance out the window to see his lights are still on. Good. Let him pace. Let him spiral. Let him decide. Because the next time we kiss—and there will be a next time—I don’t want it stolen in a laundry room between spin cycles. I want him choosing me in the daylight.
I turn off the kitchen light, already rehearsing my calm smile for tomorrow.
Weaponized restraint, activated.
Brunch is brunching and the girls are already three mimosas deep by the time I realize Malia hasn’t stopped staring at me.
Not casually. Not socially. Clinically.
I lower my glass. "What."
She doesn’t even blink. "Spill, Benji."
"Spill what?" I lift my glass protectively. "I don’t want to spill a single, precious drop of this. I plan to consume every delicious molecule."
"The tea," she says patiently.
"I don’t have tea," I reply haughtily.
Candace snorts. "You always have tea."
Fine. I sigh theatrically. "Jim Masterson was caught breeding his dog with Archie Peters’s hound through the fence. Illegal, nonconsensual cross-breeding. Shocking. Honestly, the audacity."
Nobody reacts.
"Benji," Malia says flatly. "Nobody cares who Jim’s dog is sleeping with."
"That’s not the tea," Candace adds.
"Well," I continue, undeterred, "I also saw Maylene going through Eunice’s mail, and she—"
"Benji," Shania snaps, cutting me off. "Stop sidestepping the fact that you got laid."
I choke on my mimosa.
"I did?" I gasp. "News to me. Who was the lucky chap?"
"That’s what we intend to find out," Candace says sweetly, eyeing me with a prosecutor’s scrutiny.
"What makes you think I got laid?"
"Your shirt is buttoned all the way to the collar," Kiki points out.
"And you’re only on your second mimosa," Malia adds. "When you’re usually on your fourth by now."
"Wow," I mutter. "A couple of Sherlocks at this table."
Shania shares a smug look with her cohorts. "You know we’re right."
"Because my shirt is buttoned?"
"Because you’re not as thirsty," Shania continues.
"Because you’ve already had some," Candace finishes.
"You’re ridiculous," I snort, taking another sip.
"No," Malia says calmly. "We’re correct. Who was he?"
I roll my eyes. My defensive pettiness wants to point out that Shania’s teased hair is sitting a half inch higher than usual, which is a bit much for ten a.m., but I wisely keep my mouth shut.
"You don’t see me asking you to describe the sex you’re having with your husbands, do you?"
They burst into laughter.
"If we were having sex that good," Kiki says cheerfully, "we would absolutely tell you."
"Ew. Gross. And you didn’t get that gaggle of children by immaculate conception, Virgin Mary."
Kiki’s unplucked brow arches. "We’re waiting, Benji."
"Fine," I concede, drawing out the word. "I didn’t get laid. But I did engage in a steamy kiss the night before last."
They squeal. Actual foot-kicking occurs.
"And," I add, because I live for drama, "the night before that."
"With who?" Candace demands.
"A lady doesn’t kiss and tell."
Shania barks out a laugh. "You’re no lady, and it has nothing to do with the equipment."
"Rude."
"It matters who," Malia insists.
"It doesn’t. What matters is there’s a very good chance it will happen again. Possibly tonight." I wiggle my eyebrows. "And if I catch any of you meddling, spying, or lurking near my windows, I will hit you with an HOA fine so severe your husbands will never financially recover. Understood?"
They just laugh.
"We don’t need to spy through your window," Candace singsongs, topknot wobbling precariously. "We just have to be busy in the front yard when he leaves."
I blow out a breath. "What is this, Days of Our Lives? You ladies need hobbies."
Shania eyes me triumphantly. "We learned from the best."
A quiet pause is followed by a bombshell question.
"Why doesn’t Carter ever come to these things?" Kiki asks.
I scoff. Isn’t it self-explanatory? "Carter Reed doesn’t day-drink. He’s probably ironing his underwear or starching his sheets."
They exchange looks. I take a sip of my drink, which now tastes like anticipation.
By the time I get home, the champagne buzz has softened into something warm and dangerous. Confidence with poor impulse control.
I kick off my shoes, toss my keys, and do a slow circuit of the living room, pretending I’m not waiting for something to happen. I’m not spiraling. I’m biding my time. There’s a difference.
I change shirts, immediately change back, then I light a candle I don’t need and absolutely did not light for anyone else. I’m rinsing my glass when there’s a knock at the door.
Not a polite knock. Not a neighborly tap. A firm, decisive knock that sounds Carter-coded.
I freeze. No. Absolutely not. I just joked about this. It’s as if the honey jasmine candle summoned him!
Another knock. I pull in a fortifying breath and open the door.
Carter stands there, hands in his pockets, posture tight as though he’s holding himself together with office-grade self-control. He looks… wrecked. Hair slightly out of place. Jaw tense. Eyes too sharp.
"Well," I say lightly. "If this is about the dog-breeding scandal, I’ve already moved on."
He exhales, looking a bit confused. "Can I come in?"
Before I step aside, I wave to the nosy neighbors I know, for certain, are watching—i.e., Candace, Malia, Shania, and Kiki. Busted.
He doesn’t look at me right away when he enters. His gaze flicks around the room instead, grounding himself. As if he needs walls and furniture and reality before he can speak.
"I know we're not making a spectacle."
"We're definitely failing at that."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
His jaw flexes. "What happens now?"
I stare, dumbfounded. "You came over here to ask what happens after the kissing?"
"Yes."
"Carter, are you trying to schedule romance?"
He drags a hand through his hair and sputters. Actually sputters! "I want to take you somewhere."
My eyebrows shoot up. "You?"
"Don't make that face."
"It's my surprised face."
"You have twelve surprised faces."
"And every single one is beautiful."
His eyes narrow. "You're impossible." Carter executes a full 360-degree turn and drags in a deep breath. "Were you flirting with the UPS driver?"
Seriously? This man’s mind has gone around the bend, and there’s no coming back. "You came over here to ask me that?"
“No. Yes. No. I just… I haven't heard from you all day."
I blink. "Congratulations?"
"No, I mean..." He stops. Tries again. "The street was quiet."
I stare at him. "The street."
"Yes."
"The absence of my personality created a measurable disturbance in your environment."
His silence is answer enough. My heart does an embarrassing little somersault.
"Wow," I say softly. "That's somehow the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
Carter immediately looks horrified. "It wasn't supposed to be romantic."
"You came over because the neighborhood wasn't loud enough."
"That's not—"
"You missed me."
"I noticed your absence."
"Adorable."
He groans, sounding pained. "Please stop."
"Make me."
His jaw tightens. "This is why I rehearsed this."
Oh boy. "You rehearsed?"
Carter closes his eyes. "Forget I said that."
"Oh my God."
"Benji."
"You practiced."
"I had a plan."
"A plan!" In which he failed spectacularly in his execution.
"Would you stop sounding delighted for five seconds?"
"Absolutely not."
He points at me. "See? This. This is the problem."
"What problem?"
Carter opens his mouth, then stops, then opens it again. "Do you want to have dinner with me?"
I grin. "Yes."
He blinks. "Yes?"
"Yes, Carter. I'll go to dinner with you."
For a second, he just stands there, looking genuinely stunned that the answer was that easy.