Chapter 11
Saturday mornings are for brunch, gossip, and pretending mimosas count as hydration.
The girls and I decided to start early this week—eight a.m. early—so we could hit the farmers market before it gets crowded. Which, in Morningwood, means before Eunice sells out of her "award-winning aubergines" and before someone’s toddler pees in the tomato crate again.
Kiki’s hair is already swept up in a messy bun of surrender, and she yawns wide enough to make her jaw crack and accidentally takes a sip from her youngest’s sippy cup of orange juice before grimacing and reaching for her own champagne-laced glass. She eyes me over the rim.
"You realize we’re drinking before most people have finished brushing their teeth, right?"
I clink my glass against hers. "I have no problem drinking at 8 a.m. Some people meditate. I choose Prosecco."
Candace lowers her sunglasses, expression sliding into sly amusement. "Speaking of morning rituals… guess who we saw power-walking shirtless yesterday?"
I groan. "If you say Carter Reed—"
"Carter Reed," Kiki says, with a little squeal that could probably summon him if we tried hard enough.
"He’s so hot, Benji," Candace adds in that conspiratorial tone.
The way they say it—He’s so hot, Benji—as if I’m supposed to mount the man in gratitude, drives me nuts.
"Yeah, yeah. He’s cute. In that ‘I pay extra for extended warranties’ kind of way."
They laugh, but I can feel the heat creep up my neck. Because sure, maybe he’s hot. Okay, definitely hot. But he’s also annoyingly symmetrical, clean-cut, and probably exfoliates his elbows.
"He’s grumpy," I add quickly. "He gives me IRS energy. Probably audits his own feelings."
Malia snorts. "And yet, you’ve mentioned him three times this morning."
"Pure coincidence," I say, finishing my mimosa. "Now let’s go buy overpriced vegetables and judge people’s fashion choices." Starting with Mr. Reed himself.
By the time we finish our third round of "breakfast," the sun’s high and the market’s in full swing. We stroll past tables of honey, handmade soaps, and vegetables shaped vaguely like body parts.
Eunice has her stand front and center, displaying her organic produce as though it’s auditioning for a centerfold. There’s a sign that says, ‘Size Matters (When It Comes to Flavor)’, because of course there is.
I’m mid-eye roll when I spot Carter in all of his magnificent cargo-shorts glory.
He’s over at Eunice’s booth, sporting sunglasses and a fitted polo that’s doing terrible things to my ability to breathe normally.
He’s holding a zucchini like he’s about to write a dissertation on squash density, inspecting it with the same focus I use for judging reality TV contestants.
Kiki elbows me. "He’s right there. Go say hi."
I roll my eyes. "I’m not saying hi. I’m just… casually shopping in his general vicinity."
Candace smirks. "Sure, Benji. Totally different."
I grab a basket I don’t need and make my way over.
He’s still studying the zucchini. His brow furrows. "Too soft," he mutters to himself.
I lean in, my voice sugar and mischief. "You looking to grill that or audition it for a date?"
He blinks, startled. "You’re crass."
"Crass?" I clutch my imaginary pearls. "Somebody’s mother got them a word-of-the-day calendar last Christmas."
He side-eyes me. "I don’t need a calendar to learn big words."
I hum, pretending to admire the produce. "So… you buying Wilbur or putting him back?"
His mouth opens and closes. "Wilbur?"
"A fine specimen like that needs a name. Good posture, nice shape. You can tell he’s been raised with love. He’s got main-character energy. I’d definitely audition him for a date."
Carter’s jaw tightens. "You name your sex toys?"
"Wouldn’t you like to know."
He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something about unholy neighborhoods and transfer requests.
Behind the table, Eunice beams. "Oh, you two are adorable."
Carter sputters. "We’re not—"
I wink at her. "He’s shy. It’s his first farmer’s market as a Morningwoodian."
"Morningwooder," she corrects proudly.
"Even better," I purr.
As he walks away, Kiki whispers behind me, "He totally looked at your ass."
"Of course he did," I murmur, picking up a smaller zucchini. "Wilbur Junior and I are irresistible."
We drift apart—he toward the honey stand, me toward the candles—but my radar’s locked on him the entire time. Every time he picks something up, I somehow end up in that exact booth ten seconds later. Coincidence? Absolutely not.
Carter samples honey on a tiny wooden spoon. I appear beside him, nodding sagely. "Mmm, hints of jealousy and repression."
He jumps. "What is wrong with you?"
"Where do I begin?" I say, smiling. "Now, be honest—how many people have told you you’d look great covered in honey?"
He drops the spoon. "You’re unbelievable."
"I get that a lot."
When he finally escapes, I trail behind him, pretending to admire artisanal soaps. He keeps glancing back, as if I’m an overly persistent raccoon he can’t quite shake.
My phone dings in my pocket, and I slide it out to check it.
Candace: Watching you stalk that man like a cat hunting a laser pointer.
I’m shopping.
Kiki: For what, exactly?
Sexual validation and fresh basil.
Eventually, he loops back to his car, bags in hand. I’m leaning against a lamppost, pretending to check my phone when he walks by.
"Following me?" he asks dryly.
"Please," I huff. "If I were following you, you’d be flattered."
"I’m not."
"You will be," I murmur, mostly to myself.
He gives me a look—equal parts disbelief and reluctant amusement—and gets into his car.
I watch him drive off, smirking to myself as I bite into a strawberry that is way too sweet for 10 a.m.
"Wilbur," I whisper to the zucchini still in my basket, "today was a good day."
I head home with a tote full of overpriced produce and the faint scent of Carter Reed’s cologne still clinging to my sleeve—something citrusy and uptight.
The girls had dispersed after their husbands showed up with the kids, all of them offering increasingly unhinged pep talks about "manifesting romance," and I’d waved them off with promises to "manifest something, all right. "
Back in my kitchen, I unload my spoils like a man preparing for a date with destiny.
The zucchini, Wilbur Jr., goes in the sink for a rinse.
The candle—sandalwood and something called Amber Moonlight, which I’m pretty sure is just marketing code for gay and expensive—is lit.
The flame flickers as if it knows secrets.
I set the vegetable on the counter, lean against the edge, and laugh to myself. "Grill it or audition it," I mutter, remembering the way Carter’s jaw had ticked at the joke. That perfect little micro-flinch that said, I’m pretending I don’t get flustered, but I absolutely do. Delicious.
I towel Wilbur off, place him neatly beside a bowl of lemons, and slide the candle into the frame. Filters. Lighting. Angle. Caption. Saturdays are for self-care
Post.
Taking a sip of cold brew, I stare at the candle flame again. "You and me, buddy," I say to Wilbur. "We’re gonna make that man snap."
Because the thing about Carter Reed is—he’s wound so tight, you can practically hear him hum when you walk by. Every button on that Oxford of his is hanging on for dear life. And me? I’ve got time, taste, and a pool. Well, a community pool.
So, yeah. Maybe a new piece of debauched swimwear. Or a garden gnome with a suspicious resemblance to him. Or something subtler. Something that says I’m not doing this to get your attention—while being entirely, nakedly, and shamelessly all about getting his attention.
I smile wider, already picturing his frown when he spots it from across our hedges.
"Game on, spreadsheet Daddy."