Page 25 of The Gaybor War

"I could’ve drowned."

"In four feet of water? You’d have to try."

I open my mouth to argue but then bite the words back with a sickened gasp.

A warmth spreads around my knees. Then my thighs. Then—no. No, no, no.

A faint yellow cloud begins to bloom around me, radiant and horrifying.

"Oh my God!" someone screams.

The party erupts in chaos. Kids shriek. Adults scramble for the edge. Someone yells, "Get out of the pool!" like it’s a shark attack.

Benji’s face goes from amused to stricken as he realizes what’s happening. "Oh, sweet merciful Beyoncé."

I freeze, staring down at the spreading glow of betrayal. Kiki’s youngest stands on the edge of the pool, guiltily clutching their swim trunks.

"You’ve gotta be kidding me," I whisper.

Benji snorts. Loudly. Then loses the battle completely, collapsing into hysterics.

"Don’t—" I point at him, water dripping from my finger. "Don’t you dare laugh."

He wheezes, "I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing near you," and dissolves again.

I drag myself out of the pool, dripping, mortified, and very likely irradiated. My dignity trails behind me like a wet towel.

Benji tries to compose himself and fails. "You—you look like you just survived Chernobyl."

"You’re enjoying this way too much," I mutter, wringing out my shirt.

He hands me his towel—hot pink and patterned with cartoon eggplant emojis, naturally. "Here. Consider it a peace offering. You know… from the neighborhood."

I take it because there’s nothing else to do. "I’m burning this later."

"Sure you are," he says, smiling.

As I turn to go, he calls after me. "Hey, Carter?"

I glance back.

"Next time, maybe bring a swimsuit."

I scowl at him. My scowl does nothing. He doesn’t even flinch. He’s probably staring at me behind those shades, reading my reaction like a smug little manual: Carter, the perfectly composed finance guy, flustered by a man in novelty swimwear and a sunlit grin.

I drag a hand over my face. I am not supposed to notice him like this. I am not supposed to think about how his laugh makes the insanity almost… endurable.

I wrap the pink eggplant towel around my waist, but it doesn’t hide the fact that I am utterly humiliated. I mean, yes, it’s biologically hilarious. Yes, the kids were innocent, but somehow. I am the epicenter of every mortifying detail in Morningwood Estates.

And Benji… oh, of course, Benji… is still leaning back in his lounger, arms crossed, sunglasses sliding down just enough for me to see those ridiculous, sparkling eyes. That smirk isn’t going anywhere, is it? It’s permanent, like some kind of HOA-approved monument to misdeeds and charm.

I try to focus on something else. The sun? The water? The sheer absurdity of everyone else yelling and scrambling? Nope. My brain keeps circling back to his bronze chest, faintly glistening and annoyingly perfect. To his wide shoulders and his infuriatingly relaxed posture. The way he tilts his head, as if he’s always in on a joke I haven’t heard yet.

"Hey," he calls, voice teasing, "you okay there?"

I glare. "I’m fine," I say, but my voice is shaky, betraying me.

"You’re shivering."