Page 49 of The Gaybor War

Oh. Oh, buddy.

I glance back down at the list before my face betrays me. Taco trucks. Dessert trucks. A suspicious number of smoked meat purveyors. This neighborhood has a theme, and that theme is commitment.

"Well," I say lightly, "I’m not hard to find."

Silence stretches between us.

He exhales, and I can hear every word he isn’t saying. "You’ve been busy."

Translation: You disappeared, and I noticed.

"I volunteer," I say. "Aggressively."

A corner of his mouth twitches. He doesn’t quite smile, but it’s close enough to count as a concession.

For the next twenty minutes, we are side-by-side, heads bowed close, his spicy cologne invading my nostrils and higher reasoning, and I know without a doubt I’m going to dream of this man tonight. Dirty, filthy x-rated dreams that have nothing to do with food trucks and committee compliance.

We stand to pin the finalized list on the bulletin board. It puts us closer than necessary. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Smell his clean, soapy scent. His shoulder presses into mine just enough to be intentional.

"You’re hard to ignore," he says all low and gravelly.

I feel it land everywhere.

Carter doesn’t pull away. Neither do I. And for one dangerous second, neither of us moves. I keep my eyes on the paper because if I look at him, I’ll forget why restraint matters.

"So are you," I say quietly. The silence that follows is thick enough to touch.

That finally earns me his eyes. Brown and serious and completely unsettled. As if he’s confronting something he hadn’t planned to approach today. He steps back first.

"I should go."

One of us definitely should.

"Okay," I reply, because I am nothing if not cooperative when it hurts.

He leaves. Quietly. No lingering. No backwards glance. Which somehow makes his departure worse.

I stare at the clipboard long after the door closes.

You didn’t come here for food trucks, Carter Reed. You came because I stopped chasing you, and it’s unraveling you in the quietest, most satisfying way.

I’m minding my own business.

This is important. I need that on the record.

I’m at my front window, holding a mug of coffee I reheated twice and forgot again, when a car I do not recognize pulls into Carter’s driveway.

I’m not spying. I’m not. I’m simply… looking out my window. Observing. Which I’m allowed to do. It’s my window. I pay taxes. This is America.

I freeze.

It’s a nice car. Clean. Polished. The kind of car that suggests financial stability and a skincare routine. A man gets out. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a button-down that looks as if it came directly from Carter’s own closet of straight-wear.

My stomach drops. Carter opens the door. And then—he smiles. Not his polite, HOA-approved smile. The real one. The one he pretends he doesn’t have.

The man steps forward, and Carter hugs him. Fully. Arms around shoulders, chest against chest. Comfortable. Familiar.

I make a small, sad sound somewhere between a gasp and a wounded squeak.