Page 90 of The Gaybor War

"There’s nothing to spill."

"Carter."

There’s enough older-brother skepticism packed into one word to make my eye twitch.

I exhale sharply. "It’s for a professional event."

"You're shopping for a sexy pirate costume."

"Research is not commitment."

"Carter."

"I like to be prepared."

Mark laughs so hard he snorts. "Oh my God, you're serious."

"I am always serious."

"That's not the defense you think it is."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "He's impossible."

"Uh-huh."

"Everything is a joke."

"Mm-hmm."

"He flirts compulsively. With everyone. It’s pathological."

Mark hums thoughtfully. "I bet he’s a great kisser."

Heat burns my face.

Oblivious to my internal volcano, Mark continues. "That mouth is⁠—"

"Don’t you dare finish that sentence!"

He dissolves into louder laughter. "Oh my God," he wheezes. "You've got it bad."

I close my eyes. "That's a very dramatic conclusion."

"You’re blushing, aren’t you?"

"That is both impossible for you to verify and wildly irrelevant."

"You’re absolutely blushing."

I pinch the bridge of my nose hard enough to leave fingerprints.

"This conversation has lost all professional integrity."

"Carter, you’re buying a sexy pirate costume because your hot neighbor asked you to. We crossed that line ten minutes ago."

I hate how reasonable that sounds.

Mark’s voice softens, amusement giving way to something more familiar. More brother than tormentor. "Look, man. Buy the damn costume and loosen up. Who knows?" he adds. "You might actually have fun."