Page 102 of The Gaybor War

Carter lasts twelve minutes before someone mistakes him for security. I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my complimentary iced tea.

"I don't look like security."

The woman blinks. "You absolutely do."

I don't help. Mostly because she's right. He’s dressed in black pants, a charcoal Polo, and a black jacket.

He spends the rest of the evening being adopted by various authors who need someone tall to reach things, carry things, or glare at technology until it behaves.

Turns out Carter's version of mingling is standing quietly until someone asks for help. Then suddenly he's fixing badge printers and locating extension cords and becoming strangely popular.

It's honestly kind of hot.

By dinner, I've lost track of how many people have told me they like him. One author hugs him goodbye. Another asks if he's single. Carter looks horrified both times.

I enjoy myself immensely.

The restaurant downstairs is crowded and loud, and somehow we end up spending two hours there anyway, talking, laughing, and stealing food off each other's plates like we've been doing this for years.

By the time we finally make it back to the elevators, the lobby has thinned out. The day settles over us in a warm, pleasant haze.

I have the strange realization that I've spent nearly twelve straight hours with him and somehow don't feel remotely tired of his company. And I’m almost positive he would say the same about me.

Chapter 25

Benji disappears into the bathroom with a lazy, over-the-shoulder grin, leaving the door cracked just enough for the hum of the overhead light to drift out. I take that as my cue to unpack.

Which I do with intention.

Every item comes out of my suitcase in a precise sequence. Shirts laid flat, then folded. Pants hung. Socks paired, rolled, and lined in a neat row. Belts uncoiled, smoothed, and looped so each one matches a specific outfit. Shoes set heel to heel beneath the rack.

Order settles me. It always has.

The bathroom light clicks off, making the room feel notably smaller and intimate, and I make the mistake of looking up at exactly the wrong moment.

Benji steps out barefoot, wearing nothing but dangerously skimpy black underwear. No shirt. No socks. Just smooth skin, lean muscle, and confidence stitched into every inch of him. He smells faintly of soap and something citrusy and expensive.

He catches my stare immediately and smirks. My internal functioning freezes.

I glance down at my socks, T-shirt, and boxers, and feel almost aggressively modest while Benji looks like the physical embodiment of bad decisions.

His gaze sweeps over me slowly, deliberately, then flicks back up to my face.

"You look…" He tilts his head, lips twitching. "Warm."

A snort bubbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. "You look… underdressed."

"That’s one word for it." He climbs onto the bed and settles against the pillows, entirely too comfortable for someone currently dismantling my self-control molecule by molecule. "I sleep hot."

I turn back to my suitcase before my brain short-circuits entirely. Unpacking gives me something to focus on. Behind me, the mattress shifts.

"You know I’m watching you, right?"

Benji is stretched across the bed, propped on one elbow, looking entirely too entertained by my existence.

"Good. Then you’ll appreciate the system."

He hums. "Carter, sweetheart. You have severe OCD and a deeply personal relationship with control."