Chapter 21
The next three days settle into something new.
Benji and I don't hide whatever this is, but we don't announce it either. We text. We linger on opposite sidewalks after work. One of us inevitably finds an excuse to cross the street, and the other conveniently happens to be outside already.
Morningwood notices before we do.
Candace waves at us with a smile that suggests she's already planning centerpieces. Shania starts saying you boys instead of our names. The neighborhood has apparently decided we're dating.
The unsettling part is... they aren't wrong. The only person who seems determined not to acknowledge the obvious is me.
Benji made me ask him to dinner. He said yes. And then I never actually chose a restaurant.
Every evening after work I spend twenty minutes researching places, another twenty rejecting them for reasons ranging from too loud to insufficient parking, until somehow I'm standing on Benji's porch with takeout instead.
Which, according to Benji, is "aggressively on brand."
I tell myself tonight is practical. Benji's working late. I ate something depressing at my desk around four-thirty that technically qualified as dinner if you lowered your standards enough. We both needed to eat anyway.
This isn't avoiding the date. It's... pre-date logistics. That's probably a thing. I knock anyway, even though I'm not fooling myself.
The door swings open. Benji is wearing reading glasses. Actual reading glasses.
Thin red frames sit low on his nose while the sleeves of his shirt are shoved to his elbows.
His hair is slightly messy, his attention clearly somewhere else before he opened the door, and for one disorienting second he looks less like a walking neighborhood incident and more like an actual professional.
It's alarmingly attractive.
He blinks when he sees me. Then smiles. "Well. If it isn't my favorite HOA menace."
My brain immediately abandons every prepared thought.
"Oh."
One eyebrow lifts. "Good oh or bad oh?"
"I wasn't aware you owned glasses."
His grin widens. "I own several pairs."
That feels excessive. He probably has a pair in every color to match his best outfits.
I hold up the takeout bag before my brain can wander somewhere unproductive. "I brought food."
"Perfect." He steps aside. "Come in. I'm on a deadline. You've arrived during peak productivity Benji, which is a rare and elusive phenomenon."
I step inside. The dining table is a controlled explosion of color, littered with mockups, notes, and a tablet propped up with an image on the screen next to his laptop.
It's chaotic. But not random. Everything seems to belong exactly where it is.
Benji circles the table and drops back into his chair. "Don't judge me."
"I wasn't."
"You were absolutely judging me."
"I was evaluating."
"That's finance for judging."
I set the bag down and glance at the screen. "What are you working on?"
Benji brightens instantly. The transformation is immediate.
He taps the tablet and swivels it toward me. The cover is… a lot. Two shirtless men with sweat, veins, and a stare that could peel paint. One of them looks like he could lift a car. The other looks like he’d dare you to watch.
I feel my ears warm. "This is—" I clear my throat. "This is your job?"
Benji preens just slightly. "I make books irresistible."
"With shirtless men?"
"I'm a specialist."
I shake my head.
"For romance readers," he says unapologetically. "Some of us were called to do important things, Carter."
I snort.
"I was called to convince the world that men are sexy beasts and more desirable than they have any right to be. And, obviously, to spread the gay agenda."
"Obviously."
"I do God's work."
"You're ridiculous."
"And employed."
The thing is, underneath the jokes, he's good. Really good. I expected something flashy. I didn't expect this. The cover is polished. Professional. Every detail looks deliberate.
Not good for Benji. Just good.
Maybe he notices something in my expression because his grin softens.
"People think covers are easy," he says. "They're not." He taps the screen. "You've got maybe three seconds to convince someone to click. Color. Typography. Composition. Every choice matters."
His mouth curves. "Also abs."
"Naturally."
"Mostly abs."
I laugh despite myself. And then I realize he's stopped performing.
He's talking about something he genuinely cares about.
It's strangely compelling. The same way listening to someone describe a favorite hobby becomes interesting simply because they love it.
I watch him explain font hierarchy and visual balance with the same enthusiasm he brings to HOA warfare.
Somehow that's even more attractive.
We move toward the kitchen with the food, and I clock the suitcase near the spare bedroom. "You going somewhere?"
"Oh. Yeah. Book signing."
I pause. "A signing?"
“I’ll be out of town for a couple of days."
Something about that lands oddly.
The idea of Benji somewhere else. Not as my neighbor. Not as my personal disruption. Just... Benji. Existing in a world I know nothing about.
"What’s that like?" I ask before I can stop myself.
His eyebrows rise slightly, as though he's surprised I asked.
"Loud," he says after a moment. "Fun. Exhausting.
" He leans against the counter. "People come up and tell me what books meant to them.
They'll point at a cover and tell me it made them buy the book.
Or they'll tell me a series became their comfort read during a rough year.
" The humor fades around the edges. "It's nice. "
I try to imagine it. Laughing. Talking. Being appreciated for something he built. And suddenly I realize I've never really considered what Benji looks like outside Morningwood. Outside our ridiculous street. Outside whatever role I've assigned him in my head.
The thought settles somewhere uncomfortable. Because now I want to.
"Well," I say finally, unpacking the containers. "I hope it goes well."
He smiles warmly at me. "Thanks. I like that you asked."
Something about that sticks with me. Maybe because I realize I don't ask enough. About his work, his life—about anything that exists beyond the version of him I already know.
Dinner ends up happening at the island with open cartons between us and knees occasionally bumping beneath the counter.
It's surprisingly easy. No verbal sparring. No neighborhood nonsense. Just conversation. Benji tells me about an author who rejected an entire cover because it wasn't emotionally horny enough.
I still don't know what that means, but he insists it's a real thing.
I tell him about work—nothing confidential, just enough for him to tease me about my love of order and my refusal to admit spreadsheets can be beautiful.
"They are beautiful," I insist. "They’re honest."
He hums thoughtfully. "You’re an earnest man, Carter Reed."
"I’m practical."
"Same thing."
I tell him about my brother, how he never met a boundary he didn’t want to test. Benji admits he moved here because he wanted somewhere quieter, then laughs because clearly that didn’t work.
I laugh so hard I nearly choke. "You chose the wrong neighborhood."
"I chose the right antagonist," he counters.
I shake my head, smiling. There’s a pause as he forks another bite, watching me over the rim of his glasses. Assessing, but gently. As though he's enjoying himself. As though he likes being here. With me.
"You should come with me," he blurts.
I blink. "Come where?"
He tilts his head. "The book signing."
I laugh, short and disbelieving. "I don’t think I’m the target audience."
"Please. You’d be terrible at blending in. But it’d be fun."
"I don’t do fun." It's my automatic response anytime I hear that word.
He smiles as if he’s heard that before and already filed it away as something to challenge. "You look like you could use some." His smile turns sly. "And you'd get to watch me be adored by hundreds of strangers."
“Ah, now we get down to the truth.”
"I thought you'd appreciate the honesty."
I should say no. I don't travel spontaneously. I don't attend book conventions. And I definitely don't spend weekends following attractive neighbors around unfamiliar cities.
The answer should be obvious.
Instead, I picture it. Benji behind a table talking about something he loves. Confident, happy, and completely in his element. And unexpectedly, I want to see it.
Not because of the books. Because of him.
"I'll think about it."
His smile is small but victorious. "That’s all I ask."
The annoying thing is that I actually mean it. Not the thinking part. The wanting to go part.
I stand in my kitchen for a long moment after leaving Benji's house, leftovers in one hand and a problem in the other.
The leftovers go in the fridge. The problem follows me.
Dinner should have settled something. Instead, it made everything clearer. I like being around him. Not in the abstract. Not in the theoretical way I've been dissecting for weeks.
I like sitting across from him while he talks about things he cares about. I like watching his face change when he's excited. I like learning things about him that have nothing to do with flamingos, HOA battles, or mutual irritation.
Somewhere along the way, Benji stopped being the disruption. He became the thing I look forward to. The realization should probably alarm me more than it does.
I lean against the counter and think about the convention. Not the crowds or the travel.
Him.
The way his expression softened when he talked about readers. The quiet pride he tried to hide behind jokes. The fact that when he invited me, it wasn't because he needed company.
It was because he wanted me there. That matters more than I'm prepared to unpack.
I push away from the counter and pace through the kitchen until I’m interrupted by my phone buzzing, scattering my thoughts.
I already know who it’s from. My body does that quiet, traitorous thing it does now—anticipates him before my brain catches up.
Benji: Important question.
I stare at the screen.
I'm afraid to ask.
Benji: That's fair.
Three dots appear again.
Benji: Are you coming with me?
Yes, I'll go to the convention with you.
This time the pause is longer. Long enough that I picture him smiling at his phone.
Benji: Good.
Another message follows immediately.
Benji: Oh! Almost forgot—after-signing party is themed. You’ll need a sexy pirate costume.
I stare at the screen.
A sexy pirate.
I just spent twenty minutes mentally negotiating sleeping arrangements, emotional boundaries, and the possibility that I am about to reorder my life around a man who owns a shed packed with plastic flamingos and a drawer full of jockstraps and thongs.
And now he wants me in a tricorn hat.
I type. Delete. Type again.
I don’t own a pirate costume.
It goes without saying that if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be sexy.
Three dots appear immediately.
Benji: We’ll fix that. I have opinions.
I close my eyes. This is it. This is where a sane person would back away slowly. Where reason should prevail. Where I should remember that I like quiet and predictability and not being perceived.
Instead, I picture Benji at a party full of strangers, laughing, alive, looking for me in a crowd. Wearing something that shows off his tight body and delicious butt. And I realize—with a mix of dread and something dangerously like excitement—that I am absolutely going.
A pirate. A sexy pirate.
I set the phone down.
"I’ve lost my mind," I tell the empty room.
The room does not disagree.