Chapter 10 #2
"Exactly!" he exclaims, tossing a beige button-up over his shoulder. "Screaming is fun. Life is fun. These are… not fun."
He’s standing way too close again, brushing past my arm as he rearranges my neatly stacked chinos into some kind of playful, chaotic mountain. I bite my lip, trying not to notice how the light catches the planes of his torso.
"Seriously," I mutter, attempting to reclaim some authority, "I don’t need a stylist."
He squints at me, grin widening. "Oh, I think you do. And I’m volunteering."
I groan, backing toward the dresser, which somehow only makes him lean in more. "You’re insane."
"And yet," he says, plucking a striped polo from the pile and holding it like a flag, "you can’t look away."
I try to focus on the task—folding, sorting, pretending this is all normal—but my hands keep shaking. Not with fear. With something else entirely.
He flips a shirt over and holds it up to me. "Picture this at the next HOA mixer. Instant conversation starter. Trust me."
I stare, my tongue twisted and tied. "I… I don’t… No one’s… I—"
Benji laughs, sliding past me again. "Relax, Carter. I’m just rearranging. You’ll thank me later."
Yeah. I’ll thank him later… probably in ways I’m definitely not supposed to be thinking about right now.
As Benji sifts through my wardrobe, tossing things this way and that with alarming glee, my brain wanders to a very dangerous place.
What would I find if I cleaned out his drawers?
No. Stop. Absolutely not. That’s a terrible idea.
I imagine mismatched socks, novelty boxer briefs with pineapples or tacos, maybe even some wildly impractical hats. Speedos, thongs, jockstraps and bikini briefs. My pulse ticks up at the thought, and immediately I chastise myself.
That doesn’t help anything. It only proves how much I’m already thinking about him. About his stupid grin. About the way he somehow makes everything in my life feel suddenly small, dull, and… boring.
I shake my head, trying to focus on the task at hand. Folding. Sorting. Keeping the closet intact. Anything to stay grounded.
And yet, every time he leans closer, laughs, or picks up a perfectly neutral gray T-shirt and holds it like it’s damning proof of my lackluster personality, my brain betrays me again.
He’s impossible. And I’m in deep trouble.
Benji plucks a crisp white button-up from the pile and holds it up dramatically, letting it drape over his arms.
"Oh, Carter," he sighs, as if I’ve just handed him the crown jewels. "This one’s perfect. It says… ‘I have a master’s degree in finance, but I’m secretly wild.’"
I blink, trying to think of something clever, but I’ve got nothing. "It… doesn’t say that."
He winks, twirling the shirt in the air. "Oh, it does. You just need someone to interpret. Luckily, you have me."
Then he grabs a pair of gray chinos. "And these. Hmm… practical. Safe. But, oh! With a pop of—say, a neon sock—suddenly you’re a financial wizard by day, a mysterious enigma by night."
I can’t stop myself from snorting. He beams as if I just handed him the key to the city.
"And your shoes!" he exclaims, coming closer. "You know, I can’t help but think a little personality could be added here. Loafers are nice, but you could have—"
I hold up a hand. "Personality isn’t mandatory for work, Benji."
He leans in, voice dropping two octaves. "Maybe not. But it is mandatory for me to notice you."
I nearly drop the pile of shirts.
But he just laughs, brushing past me to grab another neutral staple, leaving me questioning my ability to focus on literally anything else while he’s in my bedroom.
Benji grabs a plain gray sweater from the pile and holds it up as if it were a canvas.
"You know what would really elevate this?" he asks, holding it up to my chest. "A little pop of color."
Before I can protest, he tugs my shirt up over my head.
"Hey!" I sputter, hands flailing.
"Relax." His voice is teasing, eyes sparkling. "I’m just improving your aesthetic."
His hands brush mine as he slides the new shirt over my shoulders, fingers lingering just a fraction too long. I feel heat gather in my stomach—not just from the physical contact, but from the audacity of him being this close, touching me like he has the right to.
He steps back, admiring his handiwork. "See? Instantly more… you."
I glance down. The sweater is gray, but he’s tucked a brightly colored scarf—mine, from the drawer—into the neckline, just so. A subtle flash of magenta.
"You’re ridiculous," I murmur, heart hammering as I try to regain composure.
He smirks. "And you’re finally seeing it. Come on, admit it. This is better than your boring gray life."
My eyes flick to his. To his smile. To his artfully mussed hair. And I realize… I don’t care if he’s ridiculous. I don’t care if he’s infuriating.
I’m dangerously aware of every inch of him, every motion, every laugh that makes my pulse spike.
"Fine," I breathe, almost against my will. "It is… better."
"Thought so." He leans a fraction closer, as if he’s daring me to look away.
And I can’t.
Benji crouches to grab a pair of neutral shoes, then tilts his head at me with that infuriating smirk.
"You know," he says, brushing imaginary lint from my hip, "if we just adjust the cuff here… and maybe a little attention to the socks…"
My pulse hammers. My brain short-circuits. My chest feels tight, as if I might combust.
"Benji," I croak, trying to sound authoritative, "I—"
He raises up, brushing the tip of a finger along my forearm, just lightly enough to be maddening. "Shh. Don’t fight me. Just… look fabulous."
I inhale sharply, counting the seconds, willing my body to cooperate, but it’s useless. Every nerve ending is on fire, every rational thought evaporated in the heat of him being way too close.
"And maybe a pop of—oh!" He holds up a beanie I wore six years ago on a ski trip with my parents, ridiculously loud, and dangles it between us. "Yes. This. This is you."
I can’t think. I can barely speak. I can only watch as he drapes it over my neck, his hands brushing mine as he adjusts it with playful precision.
"Benji," I whisper, voice cracking, "I—"
"Yep," he interrupts with a chuckle, clearly delighted, "you’re officially dangerous."
I swallow. My chest rises and falls quickly. "You… you’re insane."
"But," he says, stepping back just enough to tease, "you like it. A touch of Benji looks good on you, Carter Reed."
I blink, trying to process the audacity—and the heat—radiating from him. My pulse races. My brain scrambles. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny, rebellious part whispers: He’s right. I do.