Chapter 3
If anyone ever says moving is easy, they’re either lying, obscenely rich, or dead inside.
I’ve been in Morningwood Estates for exactly forty minutes and I already hate it.
The neighborhood looks like Barbie’s retirement community with pastel houses, identical mailboxes, and lawns trimmed within an inch of their lives. Even the air smells like sunscreen and gossip.
I didn’t particularly want to move here, but my realtor called it "an up-and-coming community with charm." What she meant was aggressively cheerful neighbors with too much time on their hands.
Across the street, a man in a navy flamingo-print shirt is ‘watering’ his flower bed as though he’s auditioning for a gardening calendar. The tiny coral shorts, the smirk, the way he keeps adjusting his sunglasses just to look around—yeah, this is definitely one of those neighborhoods.
I try not to look at him. Unfortunately, he keeps existing.
I haul another kitchen box from the SUV and immediately feel eyes on me. Not subtle eyes, either. Full-body assessment eyes.
Then comes the spray.
Cold. Unrelenting. Wet.
One second, I’m carrying dishes. The next, a jet of water slams into my chest hard enough to qualify as a municipal assault.
Water hits my shirt, my face, and somehow the inside of my sleeve. The box slips from my hands and lands on the driveway with a crack.
Across the street, Flamingo Guy looks horrified, wrestling the hose that betrayed him.
"Oh my God—sorry!" he yells, sounding panicked.
I stare at him through dripping water and take a slow breath, just before another jet blasts my nutsack. My inhale is so fast and hard that I choke on it.
Then the idiot blasts himself!
I take the gift of karma with me as I cross the street. He’s sprawled in mud and dripping, not his finest moment, I’m sure, and I stand over him and glower.
"I was going to introduce myself," I say flatly, "but I think you’ve already baptized me."
He blinks behind his sunglasses as he stutters more apologies.
"I’d offer a handshake, but I don’t want to drown."
"Fair. I’ll just wave, like neighbors. You know, the friendly kind."
His smile is apologetic and too shiny for human eyes.
"Yeah," I mutter, turning away. "We’ll see."
I step inside, dripping on the hardwood, and drop the box on the counter. My shirt clings, my patience evaporates.
Welcome to hell Morningwood Estates.
Later, when I step back out for another box, he’s still there, standing among his waterlogged flowers as if he’s hosting a press conference. He’s got his phone out, and he’s smirking.
Fantastic. He’s probably live-tweeting this.
Behind him, a gaggle of women clusters two yards over. They’re holding their phones and waving like backup dancers. One yells to him, "Did you meet Carter yet?" and another squeals, "He’s adorable!"
Great, they already know my name.
Flamingo Guy lifts a hand in a loose wave. "They’re talking about you. Welcome to the neighborhood."
I stare back, expressionless. "Thanks."
He brightens. "I’m Benji."
Benji? Isn’t that name reserved for dogs and Broadway dancers?
"Nice to meet you, Benji. I’m Carter." I nod once and go back inside before my face betrays me.
The house is still half boxes and echoes. I step around the clutter, open the fridge, and grab a cold drink.
"Benji," I mutter. "The guy who thinks a hose to the balls counts as an introduction."
I’m not convinced it wasn’t intentional.
I open another box, find my coffee maker, and take inventory.
My new neighbor is exhausting.
The HOA already feels… attentive.
And I’ve somehow become a topic of conversation.
Perfect.
If this is Morningwood Estates’ idea of a warm welcome, I’m going to need caffeine before I participate.
By eight o’clock that night, I'd unpacked exactly three boxes, eaten cold Chinese takeout standing over the counter, and discovered that my Wi-Fi doesn’t work unless I sit in the hallway and hold the router like a communion wafer.
I’m halfway through debating whether to shower or just burn my clothes when my phone dings with a message from an unknown number.
Welcome to the Morningwood Minute!
Where neighbors become friends, friends become family, and nobody’s business stays private for long!
I stare at the screen, unblinking. I didn’t sign up for this.
Within seconds, my phone buzzes again, and then it’s nonstop.
Shania: Ladies!! Carter’s here! The new guy!!
Candace: Is he the one who got baptized by Benji?
Malia: LMAOOO poor guy didn’t even make it a day.
Kiki: Someone should check if he survived.
I scroll through the barrage, every new message a little worse than the last.
Shania: @Benji, has he said hi yet???
Benji: Sure. He’s shy, though. Also drenched.
I rub my face and exhale through my nose. "Shy," I mutter. "Sure. That’s the word."
The group chat explodes again.
Candace: We love a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers arc
Malia: Call Netflix.
Benji: Excuse me, I don’t do enemies-to-lovers. I do enemies-to-I-win.
I snort before I can stop myself. God help me, the man’s ridiculous.
Shania: Don’t listen to him, Carter. He’s the SAG of Morningwood.
Benji: Don’t you dare.
Kiki: Single And Gay!
Benji: I hate this HOA.
That makes two of us!
I toss the phone onto the couch, but the grin won’t quite leave my face. I didn’t move here for friends. Definitely not for whatever Benji is.
Still… there’s something weirdly magnetic about him. The shirts, the commentary, the fact that his idea of a welcome gift was waterboarding. At least life here won’t be boring.
I look out the front window. His lights are still on. He’s pacing in front of the large bay window, phone in hand, probably narrating my life to that group chat as if it’s a reality show.
"Enemies-to-I-win," I murmur. "We’ll see about that."
I turn away, but not before pulling the blinds shut, just in case he’s watching back.