Page 7 of The Gaybor War

If anyone ever says moving is easy, they’re either lying, obscenely rich, or dead inside.

I’ve been in Morningwood Estates for exactly forty minutes and I already hate it.

The neighborhood looks like Barbie’s retirement community with pastel houses, identical mailboxes, and lawns trimmed within an inch of their lives. Even the air smells like sunscreen and gossip.

I didn’t particularly want to move here, but my realtor called it "an up-and-coming community with charm." What she meant was aggressively cheerful neighbors with too much time on their hands.

Across the street, a man in a navy flamingo-print shirt is ‘watering’ his flower bed as though he’s auditioning for a gardening calendar. The tiny coral shorts, the smirk, the way he keeps adjusting his sunglasses just to look around—yeah, this is definitely one of those neighborhoods.

I try not to look at him. Unfortunately, he keeps existing.

I haul another kitchen box from the SUV and immediately feel eyes on me. Not subtle eyes, either. Full-body assessment eyes.

Then comes the spray.

Cold. Unrelenting. Wet.

One second, I’m carrying dishes. The next, a jet of water slams into my chest hard enough to qualify as a municipal assault.

Water hits my shirt, my face, and somehow the inside of my sleeve. The box slips from my hands and lands on the driveway with a crack.

Across the street, Flamingo Guy looks horrified, wrestling the hose that betrayed him.

"Oh my God—sorry!" he yells, sounding panicked.

I stare at him through dripping water and take a slow breath, just before another jet blasts my nutsack. My inhale is so fast and hard that I choke on it.

Then the idiot blasts himself!

I take the gift of karma with me as I cross the street. He’s sprawled in mud and dripping, not his finest moment, I’m sure, and I stand over him and glower.

"I was going to introduce myself," I say flatly, "but I think you’ve already baptized me."

He blinks behind his sunglasses as he stutters more apologies.

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

"Fair. I’ll just wave, like neighbors. You know, the friendly kind."

His smile is apologetic and too shiny for human eyes.

"Yeah," I mutter, turning away. "We’ll see."

I step inside, dripping on the hardwood, and drop the box on the counter. My shirt clings, my patience evaporates.

Welcome to hell Morningwood Estates.

Later, when I step back out for another box, he’s still there, standing among his waterlogged flowers as if he’s hosting a press conference. He’s got his phone out, and he’s smirking.

Fantastic. He’s probably live-tweeting this.

Behind him, a gaggle of women clusters two yards over. They’re holding their phones and waving like backup dancers. One yells to him, "Did you meet Carter yet?" and another squeals, "He’s adorable!"

Great, they already know my name.

Flamingo Guy lifts a hand in a loose wave. "They’re talking about you. Welcome to the neighborhood."

I stare back, expressionless. "Thanks."