The Gaybor War

Chapter 6

Iturn into the subdivision after a long day of spreadsheets and meetings, looking forward to a quiet, civilized evening and a strong drink. The shorter commute has me in a great mood. But when I pull into the driveway, it’s instantly soured.

Benji’s sitting in a lawn chair in the middle of his yard.

Sunlight catches his bare chest and somehow manages to highlight…

everything. Shoulders, collarbones, pecs.

Abdominal muscles tight enough to make me question every late-night donut I’ve ever eaten.

And his posture—perfect. Relaxed but precise, as if he’s been coached by someone who moonlights as a mannequin stylist.

He tilts his head as he pretends to read a magazine. But of course, he’s not really reading. He’s displaying. Every angle calculated. Every subtle movement—shifting his legs, flexing his arms ever so slightly—screams, "I know I’m distracting, and I fully intend to capitalize on it."

And infuriatingly, I’m noticing. Everything. The curve of his jaw, the faint smirk at the corner of his lips. The way his hair glints when he brushes it back with a lazy flick of his fingers.

I hate it. I really hate it.

Of course, the most enticing body on the block had to come attached to the least enticing personality. Why does a face like that belong to someone I’d pay not to talk to me?

I grit my teeth, clench the steering wheel, and try to focus on the driveway. Ignore his perfectly sculpted arms. Ignore the sun bouncing off his smooth chest and the dewy glisten of his sweaty skin. Ignore the fact that he probably planned this entire tableau for maximum effect.

And yet, I can’t stop watching.

Grabbing my messenger bag, I climb out of the car, and I have to clear my throat before my voice will come out even. "Enjoying the sun, or just showing off?"

He looks up with a wide smile. "A little of both. You’re home early from work."

"I still have so much unpacking to do. Figured I'd better get start—"

My words die a quick death as I get a look at my front lawn.

The flamboyance of flamingos was bad enough before, but now…

now they’re in positions that defy both physics and decency.

Heads bent at unnatural angles, wings spread as if they’re mid…

well, mid-action. I recognize some of those positions because I’ve performed them.

This man has weaponized kitsch. He has turned innocent lawn décor into an x-rated boudoir.

I stand frozen, trying to decide if I should be horrified, impressed, or both. My brain scrambles through rationalizations: I have a master’s degree in finance. I should not be losing a psychological war to a man who owns novelty socks.

He wasn’t working on book covers this morning. My eyes narrow as I stare at the porn scene spread across my yard. He was busy rearranging the flamingos into inappropriate poses.

Benji notices my pause and cackles, leaning back in the chair with a triumphant smirk. Heat slithers up my neck, making my ears burn.

He laughs at my expression. "What? Too risqué?"

I blast him with a death glare that I hope will disintegrate him on the spot. It doesn’t.

"What are you staring at?" I bark.

"Just admiring the color of your home. Lemon Taffy really brings out the red of your begonias." Benji covers his laugh with a sip of whatever he’s drinking, the picture of nonchalance.

"Oh, fuck off, Benji," I snap. "It was the only house for sale. I’ve been dying to move into Morningwood Estates for forever. The resale value can’t be beat. And this place is hard to get into."

He leans back in the chair, pretending to contemplate this. "Like your pants," he mutters casually.

I huff. "Is everything a sexual innuendo with you?"

Benji throws his head back and laughs. "Look, buddy, if you can’t take a little innuendo, you moved into the wrong neighborhood. Have you seen the monthly newsletter? It’s raunchier than a dime-store romance novel."

I slide my sunglasses down over my eyes to disguise my anger. "You would know," I say coldly.

He smirks. And suddenly, the war feels personal.

The next morning, I’m somehow trapped on the Morningwood Estates Yard Sale Committee. Which, as far as I can tell, is just a weekly argument disguised as civic engagement.

We’re seated in a semicircle of lawn chairs and clipboards, with half the neighborhood debating themes. Themes. For a yard sale.

"I think if we go with ‘Thrifty in the City,’ we could get the paper to cover it," Donna says, adjusting her visor.

"It’s not a city," Ruth from Woodpecker Lane argues. "It’s an unincorporated community. And the paper doesn’t cover us anymore after the snake incident."

By the third minute, I want to hurl my folding chair into the begonias.

I swear, if one more person says ‘community synergy,’ I’m starting a GoFundMe to pave over the entire subdivision. Fuck my resale value.

Kiki suggests color-coordinated balloons. Candace wants matching tablecloths. Someone else proposes an official Morningwood font.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "How about this—you put a sign in your yard, dump your junk by the curb, and we all call it a day?"

My suggestion is met with silence. Then muffled gasps.

Benji’s laugh drifts from the sidelines—smooth, lazy, and entirely too pleased. He’s lounging in his driveway as if he’s at a resort, sipping from a glittery tumbler with a bendy straw.

I hope my glare is cold enough to freeze his balls. "I know that’s not Gatorade in there."

He lifts the cup in a mock toast. "Carter, it’s ten a.m. on a Saturday in a neighborhood called Morningwood. I think day drinking is basically a zoning requirement."

My jaw tightens. He just smirks wider.

Damn it, he’s right.

Donna perks up, tapping her pen. "You know what we do need? Someone to design the flyer. A nice, professional one. Something that says, ‘wholesome yet chic.’"

Benji sits up a little straighter, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Well, look no further. Our very own Carter works in finance, which basically means he loves spreadsheets and Helvetica."

Every head turns toward me.

I blink, feeling the weight of a man being smothered by expectation. "Excuse me?"

Benji gestures magnanimously, as if introducing a celebrity. "He’s detail-oriented, punctual, hates fun—he’s perfect."

"I don’t do graphic design," I say flatly.

Benji grins. "You can delegate. I am a graphic designer. We’ll collaborate. You bring the corporate precision; I bring the aesthetic genius."

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Donna claps her hands. "Wonderful! Carter and Benji will make the flyer."

"I didn’t—"

"It’s settled!" she chirps. "Meeting adjourned."

The others scatter like happy pigeons, leaving me staring across the lawn at Benji, who looks far too pleased with himself.

He slurps from his straw. "Teamwork makes the dream work, Carter."

"You ambushed me."

He shrugs. "You looked bored."

"I was bored."

"You’re welcome."

He flashes a smile so blinding I forget what oxygen is for a second. And then he winks—actually winks—collects his chair, and turns back toward his house, hips swishing with deliberate exaggeration.

I exhale slowly.

This neighborhood is going to be the death of me.

Benji’s house smells like citrus cleaner and audacity.

He waves me in with a flourish.

"Welcome to the design den, where creativity meets caffeine addiction."

The "den" is his kitchen table—half-covered in magazines, stickers, colored pens, and one suspiciously empty wine glass. His laptop’s open to a template that looks like a birthday invitation for toddlers.

I stare at it, seriously doubting his professional skills as a graphic designer. "That’s… a lot of fonts."

Benji peers at the screen. "Yeah, it’s giving ransom note, isn’t it?"

"I think the word you’re looking for is chaotic."

He props his chin on his hand, smiling. "Good. Chaos gets attention."

He would know. I sigh, setting my laptop beside his. "We’re supposed to attract buyers, not warn them off."

"Who says those can’t be the same thing?" He grins, clearly enjoying himself.

Am I supposed to believe people pay him money for his design opinion? There’s no way in hell he’s making a decent living with those shabby skills.

While he fiddles with a flamingo clip art file, I open a spreadsheet template because at least that makes sense. He leans over to look. Too close. Sunblock and laundry detergent cloud my judgement.

"Oh my God," he gasps. "It’s color-coded."

"It’s efficient."

"It’s tragic," he counters.

"I’m starting to think you invited me over just to insult my workflow."

Benji winks, flashing his whiskey eyes at me. "I invited you over because you’re fun to rile up. The flyer’s just foreplay."

My fingers freeze over the keys. "Y-You can’t just say things like that."

"Why not? It’s true."

"Because—" I start, then catch myself. He wants me to react, and I refuse to give this man what he wants. "Never mind."

He’s still glowing when he finally hits print. The first page slides out, covered in bold text, flamingo borders, and one suspiciously risqué tagline:

"Morningwood Estates Yard Sale: Check out the Junk in our Trunks."

I choke on my next breath. "You’re not serious."

Benji beams. "Oh, I’m very serious. It’s eye-catching, it’s community-oriented, and it’s slightly dirty. That’s the trifecta."

"I’m not putting my name on that."

"You already did," he says sweetly, pointing at the bottom corner where it reads Flyer designed by Benji Stewart and Carter Reed.

He’s insufferable. And infuriating. And when he looks up at me like that—eyes twinkling, lips curved just a little too knowingly—I think, why does someone so damn attractive have to be this impossible?

By the time we’re stapling flyers to the neighborhood notice board, I’m questioning every life choice that’s brought me here.

Benji wields the staple gun as if it were a weapon. "You’re aiming too low," he says. "No one reads at crotch height."

I glare. "Then stop looking."

He smirks. "Can’t. Occupational hazard."

My eyes roll skyward. "I’m going to file a complaint with the HOA."

He gasps. "You wouldn’t dare betray your flyer co-chair."

"I would absolutely dare."

"You’re still sour about that font fiasco."

"Font—what—" I realize too late he means the ‘Check out the Junk in our Trunks’ thing. "That wasn’t a fiasco. It was sabotage."

Benji’s grin widens. "Semantics."

Across the street, Malia’s walking her golden retriever and waves. "Love the slogan, boys!"

"Thank you!" Benji calls, beaming.

"Please don’t encourage him."

She giggles, tugging the leash. "Oh, I’m not. I’m enabling him!"

I’m surrounded by lunatics.

We move to the next block. Benji sips from his ever-present tumbler, the one I’m sure is filled with something boozy. I nod toward it. "You know, you could just admit that’s not water."

He shrugs innocently. "It’s electrolyte recovery fluid."

"From what? Sitting?"

He hums, stapling another flyer. "From tolerating you."

Lord, please stop me from putting a staple in this man’s crotch.

We keep going, a mismatched duo with matching sunburns and mutual resentment. Every time we pass another neighbor, Benji turns the charm up to eleven—laughing, waving, and calling people by name like he’s running for mayor of Morningwood.

By the time we reach the end of the block, I’ve said good morning to fourteen people, and please stop talking in my head at least fifty times.

Benji hands me the last flyer. "Final destination: the bulletin board by the pool. Want to race?"

"I’m not racing you."

"Scared to lose?"

I pin him with a look. "No. Scared you’ll cheat."

He flashes a smile. "Then you do know me."

And I hate that he’s right about that too.

By the time we reach the pool, the sun’s in full "try not to melt" mode. The place is quiet because the pool hasn’t officially opened for the season yet, but the bulletin board is accessible to all.

Benji sets down his tote bag—because of course he brought a tote bag—and pulls out his tumbler, a handful of flyers, and what looks suspiciously like sunscreen labeled "Golden Hour Glow."

"You brought sunscreen to hang flyers?" I ask.

He gives me a scandalized look. "Sweetie, I bring sunscreen to check the mail."

I should walk away. I want to walk away. But then he sits on the edge of a lounge chair, toes dipping into the pool, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to confirm that yes, the abs are real, and yes, I’m deeply, irreparably annoyed by that fact.

He catches me looking.

"Relax," he says. "You’re making that face again."

"What face?"

"The one that says you’re internally writing my obituary."

"Maybe I am."

He laughs, low and amused, as if I’m flirting instead of fantasizing about moving to a gated community in the woods.

Then he picks up one flyer, scribbles something on it with a glitter pen—because of course he has a glitter pen—and pins it to the board.

"‘Yard Sale & Splash Bash,’" I read out loud. "Benji-approved bargains and beverages? What beverages?"

He raises his tumbler. "Mystery ones."

"Jesus Christ."

"Language, Carter. The HOA frowns on blasphemy."

"Do they also frown on public intoxication?"

"Only if someone gets arrested."

He flashes a sunny smile, the kind that makes people forget they were supposed to be irritated two seconds ago.

Unfortunately, I’m not people. "Do you ever stop performing?"

He leans back in the chair, eyes closed, letting the sun hit his face. "Do you ever stop pretending you’re not watching?"

I choke on my tongue. "Excuse me?"

Benji tilts his head lazily toward me. "Relax, I meant everyone’s watching. You should too. You might enjoy yourself."

"Unlikely."

He sighs as if I’ve disappointed him on a spiritual level. "You really are no fun."

"And you’re allergic to silence."

"Balance," he says without opening his eyes.

And just when I think I’m free to leave, he adds, "See you at the splash bash, Mr. Boxer-Briefs."

I turn on my heel, muttering, "I’ll be wearing trunks," and he laughs—loud, delighted, and entirely too pleased with himself.