Chapter 19
I’m supposed to be reviewing a budget variance, but the spreadsheet has developed a personality and it’s Benji-shaped.
I stare at the numbers until they blur, then blink hard like that might reset my brain. It doesn’t. Nothing does. Not coffee. Not discipline. Not the deeply ingrained fear of unprofessionalism that has carried me this far in life.
"Benji—" I say aloud.
Across the conference table, Ryan looks up. "Sorry?"
"I meant—" I clear my throat. "—budget. I meant budget."
Silence. Then a couple of amused looks. Someone smirks. I feel a slow, traitorous heat crawl up my neck.
Get it together, Reed.
But I can still feel that scorching kiss. It wasn’t frantic or desperate, it stopped because we chose to stop, which somehow makes it worse.
Better.
Both.
My brain keeps replaying the moment right before we pulled apart, searching for a flaw in my logic. A reason this won't work. A reason I should back away now.
The problem is, I'm running out of reasons.
I always thought I wanted calm. Order. Predictability. A life that stayed neatly between the lines.
Benji is none of those things. He's color and noise and disruption. He's the human equivalent of throwing glitter into a filing cabinet.
And somehow, instead of exhausting me, he's become the part of my day I look forward to.
That's the problem. Not that I want him.
It's that I don't seem to want less of him.
By the time I escape the office, my jaw aches from clenching. In the car, I exhale, tell myself the day is over, but then my phone rings through the speakers.
My brother's name flashes across the dash. I consider letting it go to voicemail.
Unfortunately, he's persistent.
"Hey." My tone is careful. Neutral.
"So," he says immediately. "How's suburbia?"
"Fine."
My brother lives in a condo downtown. He can’t fathom why an unmarried man with no kids would want to settle down in a gated prison—his words.
"Uh-huh. And the neighbor?"
I tighten my grip on the wheel. "What neighbor?"
"The annoying one. With the body."
I say nothing.
"And the tempting smile," he adds, twisting the knife.
Still nothing.
"The one you definitely don't spend an alarming amount of time thinking about."
I sigh. "He’s not—" I stop. Re-route. "He’s… a lot."
Mark laughs. "There’s that tone."
"What tone?"
"The one where you pretend you're complaining while describing your future husband."
I nearly drive over a curb. "Jesus Christ."
"I'm serious. Six months ago, if I asked about your neighbors, you'd tell me property values and noise ordinances. This guy gets an entire character study."
"He's objectively difficult."
"Mm."
"He inserts himself into everything."
My brother hums. "You kissed him."
I nearly miss a stop sign.
"I did not—"
"You did," he says calmly. "Because if you hadn’t, you’d be complaining about the HOA or lawn maintenance. Instead, you sound like a man arguing with himself."
"That’s not evidence."
"It’s a pattern. You only spiral like this when you care."
I pull into my driveway and cut the engine, sitting there with the sudden, awful quiet. Across the street, Benji’s house is lit up, curtains half-drawn.
I don’t look directly.
I absolutely look directly.
"He’s a bad idea."
My brother laughs softly. "You know, normal people usually say things like, 'I don't have feelings for him.'"
"I don't need a courtroom defense strategy."
"You kind of do."
I lean my head back against the seat. The silence stretches.
Then Mark's voice softens. "You’re allowed to want things, Carter. Even messy ones."
"I don’t want messy."
"You never do. You want honest. And you just hate when it doesn’t come wrapped in beige. Just don't overthink yourself out of something good."
I let out a tired breath. "That's very optimistic."
"No." Mark chuckles. "Optimistic would be assuming you've figured this out already.
The line goes quiet for a second. I glance toward Benji's house one last time.
"Goodnight, Mark."
"Goodnight. And tell your boyfriend I said hello."
"He's not my—"
The line goes dead.
I sit there longer than necessary, staring at my front door, hoping it might give me instructions. It doesn’t. Maybe because it’s painted a garish lemon yellow and all it’s capable of is looking ugly.
Across the street, a shadow moves past Benji’s window. I catch it in my rearview mirror, because, yes, I’m still looking. He’s probably spying on me.
I don’t go over.
I don’t text.
I do, however, want.
And that feels like the most dangerous part.
I go inside and do all the right things.
Hang up my keys, wash my hands, heat up leftovers and eat them standing at the counter because sitting reminds me I’m eating alone.
I scroll through emails I’ve already read and reorganize the junk drawer that holds nothing important except my need for control.
None of it works.
Every quiet corner of the house is full of him. I keep thinking about how he didn’t rush the kiss. How he stopped. How that felt like respect instead of retreat.
That’s the thing I can’t shake.
Benji doesn’t do anything halfway. Not outfits, not opinions, not entrances. And yet, with me, he slowed. He read the room. He didn’t push when he could have. He didn’t turn it into a story for the girls or a joke or a performance.
He treated it like it mattered.
God, I absolutely don’t want to admit there might be more to my sassy neighbor than meets the eye.
I sink onto the couch and drag a hand over my face. This is how it starts. Not with fireworks. With doubt. With curiosity. With the unbearable urge to cross the street and see what he’s wearing, or not wearing.
I refuse to act on impulse. I’m not an impulsive guy. Instead, I imagine what would happen if I did.
Benji opening the door barefoot. Some ridiculous shirt that shouldn’t work but does. That look in his eyes—not smug, not teasing, just open. Waiting. Possibly sweaty from his at-home workout routine.
Filled with restless energy, I start to pace again.
God, I’m being dramatic. One kiss doesn’t mean anything. Attraction isn’t obligation. Liking someone doesn’t require action.
All true. Also irrelevant.
I pour a drink I don’t need and carry it to the window. Across the street, his lights dim one by one until only the front lamp stays on. A signal. Or coincidence. I hate that I don’t know which.
My phone buzzes on the counter with a text.
Benji: Your shirt should be clean. No permanent damage. To the fabric, anyway.
I stare at it far too long.
I type, delete, and type again.
Thanks.
Just one word. Boring. Safe. Me.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Benji: Sleep, Carter. You look like someone who’s thinking too hard.
I frown at the screen.
You don’t know what I look like.
Benji: I have a very good imagination.
A laugh catches me off guard.
I set the phone down, then immediately pick it back up and read the exchange again, as though the words might have changed.
This is a terrible idea. The problem is, it doesn't feel like one.
Setting the phone face-down, I finish my drink. Tomorrow will be easier. Distance will reassert itself. The morning will bring perspective.
But as I head to bed, there’s one thought I can’t shake.
I don’t want distance. I want him to knock again.
And for the first time, I stop pretending that's a problem I need to solve.
I spend the afternoon getting absolutely nothing done.
Technically, work happens. Emails get answered. A meeting runs long. I correct someone's spreadsheet formula and feel briefly superior about it. But underneath all of it is the memory of Benji's mouth on mine.
Which is inconvenient.
Because I already know I want him. The question keeping me distracted isn't whether I should. It's what happens now.
By the time I turn onto Cockburn Street, I've built at least six possible versions of our next interaction, but none of them involve what I find waiting for me.
Benji is standing at the mailbox, phone in hand, sunglasses pushed into his hair. He looks up when he hears my car and smiles.
"Hey, Carter."
That's it. No teasing. No flirting. No look that says he spent last night replaying our kiss as many times as I did. Just... normal.
For some reason, that shakes me harder than if he'd blown me a kiss across the street. Because now I'm standing here wondering if I've imagined the significance of the whole thing.
And I hate that thought immediately.
"So," I say, because silence makes me itchy. "The chili cook-off was… something."
"It was. You survived the white-shirt incident. That’s growth."
I almost laugh. Almost.
The conversation settles. Normally Benji would fill the space. Today he doesn't. He checks his phone, adjusts his shades, and looks perfectly comfortable standing beside me without turning the exchange into a performance.
It's unsettling.
"You're being weird."
His eyebrows lift. "That's a fascinating accusation coming from you."
"No, seriously." I gesture vaguely. "You're... normal."
Benji barks out a laugh. "Wow. Right in the self-esteem."
"You know what I mean."
"I do." Something softer slips into his expression. "I figured I'd respect the rules."
"What rules?"
"The ones you made."
I frown. "I didn't make any rules."
"You absolutely did." He slips his phone into his pocket. "No spectacles. No neighborhood gossip. No public scandal."
Heat creeps up my neck. "That's not what I said."
His eyebrow arches. "Actually, verbatim."
"So now you're behaving yourself?"
He looks genuinely offended. “That’s what you wanted!”
Despite myself, I laugh. His grin flashes for half a second before he reins it in again. And suddenly I understand what's bothering me.
It's not that Benji is acting differently. It's that he's trying. For me.
"I like you," he says simply. "That hasn’t changed.”
My pulse kicks.
"And I'm happy to let you move at your speed." Benji's smile softens. "But I'm not great at pretending I don’t want what I want, and I’m not interested in chasing someone who's already standing right here."
The words land sharper than lawn darts.
I swallow. "Benji—"
He shakes his head. "I'm not asking for an answer tonight."