Page 5 of The Gaybor War

"Welcome to Morningwood," I mutter, grabbing up glossy flyers before they blow away. "Hope you like color-coded chaos."

Chapter 2

Later in the afternoon, I decide to be mature. Grown-up. Dignified. So naturally, I’m outside pretending to water my flower bed while absolutely spying on my new neighbor.

It’s not even subtle. I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes, misting the same patch of marigolds as if I’m trying to drown them. The dirt is now the consistency of soup.

Across the street, the New Guy—aka Mr. Lemon Taffy—is unpacking his life with all the joy of a man being audited. He’s wearing a black T-shirt now, one that fits like it was personally tailored by the devil to ruin me. It hugs his shoulders in ways that should be illegal in an HOA community. His cargo shorts are tragic. If HGTV ever launched "Hot Dudes, Terrible Outfits," he’d be episode one. His hair’s a little messy, as if he’s been running his hands through it all day. Which, fair, I’ve been running mental laps around him since his SUV showed up.

The ladies are head-over-heels excited about him. Of course they are. The HOA hasn’t been this collectively thirsty since Chad the pool boy cleaned the filters shirtless in June.

I tell myself I’m just being neighborly. Observant. A concerned citizen of Morningwood Estates. I am the Neighborhood Watch captain, after all. It's my job to know things, to observe. Technically, it’s not stalking if you’re holding a hose. That’s just industriousness.

He bends to grab another box from the SUV, T-shirt stretching distractingly across his back, ass rounded deliciously, and my attention drifts for approximately three catastrophic seconds.

Unfortunately, so does the hose. I somehow lose all hand-eye coordination.

The nozzle jerks sideways in my grip, sending a sharp stream of water arcing clean across the narrow street as if I’ve accidentally unlocked firefighter mode. Damn infomercial. Apparently, the Super Soaker 3000 could blast water twenty feet with "industrial-strength precision." Good to know their testing process was thorough.

"Oh, come on⁠—"

I fumble for control just as the spray catches him square in the chest.

He freezes. I freeze.

For one terrible second, the only sound on the block is water hissing dramatically against concrete.

"Ah—oh my God. Sorry!" I yank the hose downward, which somehow only creates a second wild spray that clips his crotch before I finally wrestle the nozzle into submission.

Across the street, Mr. Lemon Taffy slowly straightens. Water drips from his hair in slow rivulets down his face. His shirt and shorts are soaked, and his expression is unreadable beneath a level stare that could sand wood.

One hand still grips the box against his hip.

He looks less like a new homeowner and more like a hot model from a cheap romance novel cover, and I hate that it’s doing things to my libido.

Then his eyes flick to the hose nozzle in my hand.

"Sorry!" I shout, waving my hands like that’ll dry him off. "The hose—she’s temperamental!"

He just stares at me, dripping and unimpressed. "Yeah. I can see that. My grandfather had one like it. Took the finish off his deck."

Oh, good. His voice is deep. Rich. A voice that sounds like it comes with a five-o’clock shadow and commitment issues.

I scrabble to shut off the hose, but in my panic, I turn the knob in the wrong direction and crank it to jet mode. The nozzle kicks like a fire hose in a cartoon and blasts me backward into the flower bed.

When I sit up, covered in mud and shame, he’s standing there on the edge of my lawn, arms crossed, looking at me as though I’m the neighborhood’s official idiot.

"Nice aim," he says without humor or appreciation. "I was going to introduce myself, but I think you’ve already baptized me."

I blink. "Oh my God—sorry! Again!"

"I’d offer a handshake, but I don’t want to drown."

"Fair. I’ll just wave," I say, lifting my hand weakly. "You know, like neighbors. The friendly kind."

He glances at his shirt again, then at me. His mouth does this little twitch—half amusement, half warning.

"Yeah. We’ll see."