Chapter 15
I’m perched on the edge of the couch, newsletter in hand, a mimosa dangerously close to tipping over, while the girls crowd around like I’m about to reveal the secrets of the universe.
"Read it, Benji," Candace says, dragging her UGG-clad feet closer. "I need to know what I’m working with."
I clear my throat and dramatically unfurl the page as if it’s a scroll of ancient prophecy.
"Rise and Shine, Morningwood!" I announce, giving it the kind of gravitas usually reserved for a royal coronation.
"It’s shaping up to be a big month for community spirit! Please remember that all shrubs should remain below three feet in height (we know how Morningwood likes to grow )."
Malia snorts. "Oh, my God. Shrubs."
Shania leans in, squinting at the header. "Is that… a winking emoji?"
"Yes," I hiss. "They put a winking emoji in a PDF. I swear to God, somebody’s doing this on purpose."
I continue. "Thank you to everyone who came early to last week’s neighborhood cleanup. Your dedication keeps Morningwood beautiful!"
I throw my hands in the air. "Came early. Keeps it beautiful. I can’t breathe. The dedication, the enthusiasm—it’s suffocating."
Candace fans herself. "You’re dramatic."
"Dramatic?" I gasp. "This isn’t drama. This is fact."
I hit the next section.
"Landscape rocks muddy with pollen. Two things that often get overlooked during pollen season are rocks and doors. Wash and polish your rocks and knobs."
Shania chokes on her water. "Your… knobs?"
"Yes," I squeak, glaring at the page. "Holy Christ. They’re telling us to polish our rocks and our knobs. This reads like a bad porn script. I can’t even. Morningwood is turning into Fifty Shades of Landscaping."
Malia is practically bouncing. "Do we have to actually… do that?"
"Sure," I deadpan. "Have your husband hit mine while he’s at it."
I keep reading, striving to keep a straight face, but the chili cookoff undoes me.
"They can’t be serious," Kiki chokes. "They want to taste our spicy meat?"
Shania giggles, taking a huge sip of her drink. Malia snorts so hard she nearly inhales her straw. "I’m never unseeing that sentence."
"I’ve already seen too much," I say solemnly, tapping the page. "And yet—I press on. Because I am brave."
Kiki wipes her eyes. "Read the rest. I need to know how deep this goes."
I scan ahead, my mouth flattening. "Oh no. Oh, no." I look up slowly. "Potluck lunch. Bring your best dish and show everyone what you’re really good at handling."
The room explodes. Shania collapses sideways against the arm of the couch. "They did not."
"They absolutely did," Candace wheezes. "This is a cry for help."
"This neighborhood is one poorly placed ellipsis away from an HR violation," I say. "I don’t know whether to call the city or volunteer to help out."
Malia wipes at her eyes, now brimming with unshed tears of hilarity. "Do you think they know? Like—do you think Eunice knows what she’s doing?"
I stare down at the newsletter, then back at them. "Eunice knows exactly what she’s doing. Eunice has lived a life. Eunice is bored."
Shania finishes off her drink. "Then she shouldn’t miss the car wash. I bet she’d enjoy watching her neighbors handle their hoses."
I flip the page with the careful finesse of a man disarming a bomb. "And finally—oh good. Friendly reminders." I squint. "Pick up after your pets. No one wants a surprise in the flower beds."
Malia groans. "Stop."
"I can’t," I say. "It’s a public service."
I finish the page and let it drop to my lap, exhaling. "Well. That’s it. That’s the newsletter. A community bulletin that reads as if it should come with a parental advisory."
Candace lifts her glass. "To Morningwood."
"To Morningwood," they echo.
I’m halfway through alphabetizing the food truck roster—because I thrive in self-appointed authority—when Carter shows up.
Which is strange, because he’s not on this committee. Not on any committee, as far as I know. Carter Reed treats HOA involvement like a communicable disease.
He doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t hover. He just appears in the clubhouse doorway like a breath of fresh air.
My shoulders straighten on instinct, as though my body knows something important is happening and would like to be presentable.
"Hey," he says.
I glance up, pen paused mid-name, striving for casual and unaffected. "Can I help you?"
He hesitates. Just enough to tell on himself.
"I was… driving by," he says. Then, as if that sounds ridiculous even to him, he adds, "And saw the lights on."
I bet my brand new purple Adidas slides that’s a lie. "Were you lost?" I ask pleasantly.
His mouth twitches. "I might be."
Oh, that’s new. Carter doesn’t do self-deprecating humor.
I nod, gesturing to the folding chair across from me. "Food Truck Rodeo sign-ups are a bloodbath. You’re lucky you missed the kettle corn incident."
Carter pushes his sleeves up his forearms and sits. "You’ve got the updated list?"
I slide the clipboard toward him. Our fingers almost touch. Almost. He notices. I notice him noticing. We both pretend it didn’t happen.
"I figured you would," he adds.
There it is. The assumption. The small, unguarded truth: I knew you’d be here.
I try not to let my smile reach all the way to my ears. "You didn’t have to sabotage your entire evening. You could’ve just texted."
Carter stills. Just for a fraction of a second—but I see it. His jaw tightens as he swallows his next thought.
"I didn’t think you’d want that," he says cautiously.
Oh. Oh, buddy.
I glance back down at the list before my face betrays me. Taco trucks. Dessert trucks. A suspicious number of smoked meat purveyors. This neighborhood has a theme, and that theme is commitment.
"Well," I say lightly, "I’m not hard to find."
Silence stretches between us.
He exhales, and I can hear every word he isn’t saying. "You’ve been busy."
Translation: You disappeared, and I noticed.
"I volunteer," I say. "Aggressively."
A corner of his mouth twitches. He doesn’t quite smile, but it’s close enough to count as a concession.
For the next twenty minutes, we are side-by-side, heads bowed close, his spicy cologne invading my nostrils and higher reasoning, and I know without a doubt I’m going to dream of this man tonight. Dirty, filthy x-rated dreams that have nothing to do with food trucks and committee compliance.
We stand to pin the finalized list on the bulletin board. It puts us closer than necessary. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Smell his clean, soapy scent. His shoulder presses into mine just enough to be intentional.
"You’re hard to ignore," he says all low and gravelly.
I feel it land everywhere.
Carter doesn’t pull away. Neither do I. And for one dangerous second, neither of us moves. I keep my eyes on the paper because if I look at him, I’ll forget why restraint matters.
"So are you," I say quietly. The silence that follows is thick enough to touch.
That finally earns me his eyes. Brown and serious and completely unsettled. As if he’s confronting something he hadn’t planned to approach today. He steps back first.
"I should go."
One of us definitely should.
"Okay," I reply, because I am nothing if not cooperative when it hurts.
He leaves. Quietly. No lingering. No backwards glance. Which somehow makes his departure worse.
I stare at the clipboard long after the door closes.
You didn’t come here for food trucks, Carter Reed. You came because I stopped chasing you, and it’s unraveling you in the quietest, most satisfying way.
I’m minding my own business.
This is important. I need that on the record.
I’m at my front window, holding a mug of coffee I reheated twice and forgot again, when a car I do not recognize pulls into Carter’s driveway.
I’m not spying. I’m not. I’m simply… looking out my window. Observing. Which I’m allowed to do. It’s my window. I pay taxes. This is America.
I freeze.
It’s a nice car. Clean. Polished. The kind of car that suggests financial stability and a skincare routine. A man gets out. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a button-down that looks as if it came directly from Carter’s own closet of straight-wear.
My stomach drops. Carter opens the door. And then—he smiles. Not his polite, HOA-approved smile. The real one. The one he pretends he doesn’t have.
The man steps forward, and Carter hugs him. Fully. Arms around shoulders, chest against chest. Comfortable. Familiar.
I make a small, sad sound somewhere between a gasp and a wounded squeak.
"Oh," I whisper, scandalized. "Absolutely not."
I watch them disappear inside, the door closing softly behind them like a betrayal.
Okay. Fine. Calm down. Breathe. This could be anyone.
A cousin. A coworker. A… A… contractor?
A lover.
No. No. I don’t know that. I don’t know anything.
Except that Carter hasn’t hugged me. And I once reorganized his closet with my bare hands. My coffee is suddenly inadequate. Liquor would better suffice.
I should stop watching. Any decent person would stop watching. This is where boundaries live. Instead, I grab my sunglasses and slip on my slides.
For discretion. I need clarity.
I cross the street under the guise of checking my mail, even though it’s dark, and I already checked it today.
I’m definitely not sneaking. Just… walking.
On the sidewalk. Like a citizen. A concerned one.
I angle myself toward Carter’s front windows, heart hammering, telling myself I just need context.
The blinds are partially open. An invitation, really. It’s practically rude not to look.
Inside, they’re talking. Laughing. The man claps Carter on the shoulder. Carter smiles—really smiles. The kind I haven’t seen aimed at me yet.
My chest tightens. "Wow," I murmur. "So, this is how it is."
I take one more step closer, craning to see—
And my foot catches on a loose landscaping rock. Time slows.
I windmill. I regret every decision that led me here. I consider my obituary.
Then I go down. Hard.
My shin hits first. Then my hip. Then my dignity explodes as I crash directly into Carter’s garbage cans, sending one skidding, the lid clattering loudly enough to alert wildlife in three counties.
I land in a tangle of limbs and recycling, staring up at the dark sky.
"Son of a—"
From inside Carter’s house, a light flicks on. I hold my breath.
The front door opens. Footsteps grow louder.
"Oh my God." Carter’s voice.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
This is how I die. In Lemon Taffy-colored suburbia. Killed by curiosity and a rogue rock.
"Benji?"
I open one eye.
Carter is standing over me, concern written all over his stupidly handsome face. Behind him, the man from earlier peers over Carter’s broad shoulder, eyebrows raised.
"I—hi," I say weakly, still half inside a trash can. "So this isn’t what it looks like."
Carter rubs his forehead. "You fell."
"Yes, but with purpose. I’m just checking to make sure you haven’t mixed anything non-biodegradable into your recycling. I am the Watch Captain, after all."
The man snorts. "Is he okay?"
Carter sighs. "Define okay."
I scramble upright, brushing myself off, but the mortification clings like a second skin. "I’m fine. Totally fine. Very sturdy bones. Big… um… calcium diet."
Carter gives me a look. "Were you spying on my house?"
I open my mouth, close it, then decide honesty is overrated.
"I prefer the term situationally aware."
The man laughs outright now. "Wow. You weren’t kidding."
"Kidding about what?" I ask, already bracing.
Carter gestures between us. "Benji, this is my brother. Mark."
Brother.
Oh. Oh no. The jealousy drains out of me so fast I nearly sway.
Brother.
My laugh is loud, relieved. "Your brother. Of course. I knew that."
Carter arches a brow. "Did you?"
"Family resemblance," I explain quickly. "It’s strong. Very… sibling-coded. Same unfortunate wardrobe."
Mark grins. "You must be the neighbor."
"Unfortunately," Carter mutters.
He told his brother about me?
"Benji," I say, sticking out my hand like a professional adult who didn’t just eat pavement. "Neighborhood nuisance."
Mark shakes it. "I like him."
Carter snorts. "Give it time."
I glance at Carter, who’s still watching me, concern softened into something harder to read.
"Well," I say, dusting off my shorts and grabbing my shoe from the can before righting it. "I should go. Before I trip into anything else deeply personal."
I turn and limp-stroll back toward my house, aware of Carter’s eyes on me the whole way. What are the chances he’s checking out my ass and not my pathetic gait?
Inside, I collapse onto the couch and press a pillow over my face.
Brother. I fell into trash cans… over his brother. I groan, wishing to God I never had the fantastic idea to spy in the first place.