Page 32 of The Gaybor War

He tilts his head, smile widening. "So they can’t read my reactions."

I blink. Oh, they can read them all right. Before I can escape into the comforting anonymity of rows of folding chairs, Candace clears her throat.

"Since Carter and Benji are clearly… organized types," she says pointedly, "we thought you two might want to co-chair the clothing drive."

I choke, my grip on the paperwork I was pretending to review tightening until the pages crease. "Excuse me?"

Benji grins as if he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. "We? Oh, this is going to be fun."

"No, fun is not the correct term," I murmur.

The meeting devolves quickly, but I can feel Benji’s energy practically radiating into my lap. He’s already pulling up ideas on his phone, snapping pictures of old donation bins, and making notes as though he’s running a boutique empire.

By the end of the hour, it’s official. We’re co-chairs.

I want to cry.

A week later, I reluctantly let Benji into my house to collect clothes for the drive. He scans the closet as a treasure hunter does, ruthlessly evaluating my color-coded shirts, my neatly folded chinos, and my boring, painfully practical shoes.

"In my opinion, you should donate everything," he deadpans, scanning the row of white hangers.

"Benji!"

"Just kidding." His smile is almost infectious. "This is… actually impressive," he says, picking up a navy sweater. "But you’re missing a little pizzazz. And maybe a pineapple print or two."

I shoot him a glare. "It’s a clothing drive, not a fashion show."

His laughter feels too big for my tiny closet. "Exactly. People want practical. But I like to spice things up where I can."

I try not to notice the way his hands linger over the fabrics, or how his eyes dart around as though he’s memorizing my life one meticulously folded item at a time.

"Are you done yet?" I snap.

He looks up, seducing me with that maddening smirk. "Almost. But don’t worry—I’ll make your wardrobe exciting, Carter. Even if it kills me."

And in that moment, I realize that I’m way too invested in the man who somehow makes utility look like temptation.

Benji emerges from the closet, holding a navy V-neck sweater vest as though it’s a priceless artifact.

"Hmm," he murmurs, eyes narrowing with mock seriousness. "This one I’m keeping for myself."

Then, without warning, he slips off his shirt.

I freeze.

God, his skin. Golden in the afternoon light filtering through my blinds. Every curve, every line, every perfectly defined ridge makes my mouth water. Benji isn’t gym-jacked; he’s more naturally toned, subtly muscled and fit. Perfect.

I know I shouldn’t be staring, but I can’t stop. Not that it’s helping me concentrate.

He steps closer to the bed, casually brushing past my neatly folded shirts. Way too close. Too close for anyone’s professional comfort, let alone mine.

I glance at the mattress and try to calculate how long it’s been since I used it properly. Counting in my head… it’s been… many months. Longer than I want to admit. And now I’m acutely aware of Benji’s proximity, the softness of the bed, and the way he’s making that ridiculous leer as if he knows exactly what he’s doing.

"Are you seriously trying that on in my bedroom?" I manage to keep my voice lower than I’d like—mostly to avoid giving away the fact that my brain has officially evacuated.

Benji hums, sliding the sweater vest over his shoulders. "Why not? It’s the perfect light. Shows off my… assets." He strikes a pose as if he’s in a catalog.

I groan internally. Assets. Right. Because apparently my life now includes cataloging Benji’s torso in every conceivable pose.