Page 23 of The Gaybor War

"Nothing," I confirm, sipping my drink.

He tries not to laugh, but he fails. Just barely, but I see it—the corner of his mouth twitching, betraying him.

"Are you ready to pack up your table and head to the pool? I’m thinking of celebrating my profits with a margarita and a smutty book."

He shakes his head, but the almost-smile lingers. "You made twelve dollars and a half-used candle, Benji."

"Exactly." I gather my sad little box of leftovers. "That’s twelve more dollars than I had this morning, and the candle smells like redemption and bad decisions, my favorite scent."

Carter glowers, trying for stern but landing squarely in amused. "I guess I’ll see you there. But don’t bother saving me a seat."

Ha, fat chance of that!

Chapter 8

The HOA calls it the Morningwood Splash Bash, which sounds less like a community event and more like an adult film.

I show up late on purpose. Less small talk. Less forced cheer. Less chance of someone cornering me with a cup of lukewarm sangria to discuss the "community spirit" of Morningwood.

The moment I enter through the gate, the place is bedlam. Kids cannonballing into the deep end. Someone blasting nineties pop from a portable speaker. Adults pretending to supervise while day drinking.

And then there’s Benji.

He’s lounging beside the only available chair, a prime spot near the poolside bathrooms and vending machines, with the kind of posture that says he’s both unbothered and perfectly aware of how good he looks being unbothered.

There’s a second chair beside him. Empty, naturally.

"Aren’t you glad I saved you a seat?" he asks as soon as I approach, not even looking up from his magazine.

"Glad’s not the word I’d use," I mutter, but I sit anyway. Because what else am I supposed to do, stand there looking like the antisocial neighbor who hates summer? (Which, for the record, I am.)

Benji flips a page with exaggerated casualness. "I was starting to think you’d bail. People were taking bets."

"On what?"

"Whether you’d actually show up or fake a migraine."

I wish. The HOA president is wearing a sun visor that says ‘Let’s Get Soaking!’ I’m rethinking every decision that led me here.

I glance sideways. Benji’s wearing aviators, the reflection showing nothing but blue sky and sunlight glinting off the water. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or not, but it feels like he is.

"I had work."

"Mm. Spreadsheets?"

"Budgets."

"How thrilling." He says it as if he means how tragic.

I try to ignore the way my eyes wander. The sun hits his smooth, tan chest, the faintest sheen of sunscreen glimmering as though he was poured out of a coconut-scented fantasy. His abs tighten when he shifts to reach for his drink, and I catch myself staring before I can stop it. His tiny Speedo printed with pineapples doesn’t help, either. It cups his junk beautifully.

Thank God for shades that hide the direction of my gaze. I don’t have to like him to like looking at him.

"So," he says, smirk audible, "enjoying the sun, or just showing off?"

I blink. "That’s my line."

"Then say it better next time."