Page 30 of The Gaybor War

There he is. Mr. Business Casual in a boring baby blue polo and gray slacks. His hair sticks up in a way that makes me want to simultaneously laugh and run my fingers through it. He’s holding a travel mug, jaw set tight, probably filled with black coffee and resentment.

He looks right at me.

I raise my mug in a salute.

Carter doesn’t wave back, but the muscle in his jaw twitches. Then he gets in his overpriced SUV, backs out of the driveway, and speeds off as if he’s fleeing the scene of a crime.

I smirk into my coffee. "Have a great day at work, sweetheart."

After draining the last of my cup, I set it on the porch rail and listen to the chimes hum their smug little song.

The breeze picks up, tossing a single petal from Eunice’s prize begonias onto my lawn. I step on it for luck. Then I go inside, humming Mariah Carey under my breath, already plotting what to do next.

Because in this neighborhood, revenge isn’t loud.

It’s tasteful.

And it smells faintly of fresh-cut grass.

Chapter 10

The office smells like printer toner and strong coffee. My inbox is a graveyard of unread emails, and my spreadsheet has started to blur into one long column of stress.

I tap my pen against the desk and try to focus. But the numbers won’t line up the way they usually do, and every cell I format turns into a pink flamingo in my mind.

I close my eyes. Big mistake.

Now I can hear him. That laugh. The obnoxiously cheery one that starts low and rolls upward until it hijacks every conversation within a mile radius.

I groan under my breath. This is what I get for filing that stupid noise complaint.

At the time, it felt justified. Righteous, even. A man shouldn’t have to listen to a chorus of wind chimes that sound like a séance in a crystal shop at dawn. I’d been trying to calculate quarterly projections, and every breeze was a cosmic reminder that I’d made bad choices.

But the truth? I was pissed about the flamingos. And the pool. And the way Benji lounged there like a model on his book covers, showing off his bare skin, smug grin, and scented like coconut sin.

It wasn’t about the chimes. It was about him.

He’s ridiculous. Loud. Infuriating. And he smells good. Which feels like a personal attack. You can’t hate someone who smells like that. There should be laws.

He’s the human version of a TikTok trend that should’ve died three months ago.

Every conversation feels like being hit with confetti and then lectured about skincare.

He dresses outrageously, talks too much, and apparently thinks HOA stands for Homosexuals Overacting Always.

"Carter?"

I jolt. Stacey from accounts payable peers over my cubicle wall, eyebrows raised. "You’ve been staring at your screen for five minutes. You okay?"

"Yeah," I lie, quickly clicking into an Excel sheet as if the numbers might save me. "Just… analyzing."

She tilts her head. "You’re typing into a PowerPoint."

I glance down. Sure enough. "Right. Cross-referencing."

She squints, unconvinced, then shrugs. "Okay. We’re grabbing lunch later. Don’t forget the client meeting at two."

As soon as she’s gone, I let my head drop into my hands.