Page 123 of The Gaybor War

"Try me."

Carter slips his arm around my waist, gentle and grounding. "Let’s not start a paint war."

I glance up at him. "Have you met me? I was born for a paint war."

The cider tasting unfolds exactly how you’d expect, which is to say: disastrously.

Eunice Dobbins has transformed the clubhouse into what I can only describe as autumnal foreplay. Hay bales scattered around the perimeter hold pumpkins of all sizes. Strategically draped fairy lights glow from the ceiling. And taped to the wall is a banner that reads: TAKE IT TO THE MOUTH — MORNINGWOOD CIDER SOCIAL

Carter stops dead in the doorway.

"I will never recover from this," he mutters.

I, on the other hand, am thriving in my navy shorts, ivory button-down, loafers, and canvas belt dotted with red and green apples.

"I told you," I say, grabbing his hand. "She’s a menace with Canva."

Inside, residents mill around clutching tiny paper sample cups while Eunice presides over a folding table lined with bottles labeled with handwritten tasting notes.

There are flavors like Crisp Apple Delight, Spiced Orchard Fantasy, and Harder Cider for Harder Times. I refuse to speculate.

"Benjamin!" Eunice cries, spotting me. "You made it!"

She zeroes in on Carter. "And you brought… a guest."

Carter clears his throat. "I live here."

"Yes, but now you’re with him." She waves a hand vaguely between us.

I grin. Carter stiffens.

"That’s not—" he starts.

"Oh, hush," she says. "Everyone knows."

Yes, everyone who scoped out our matching empty driveways all weekend, and who were staring out their windows when we pulled up together with luggage.

She shoves two tiny cups into our hands. "Drink. Mingle. Take it to the mouth."

We make a circuit of the room, stopping to talk to our neighbors. For every cup Carter samples, I sample two.

Shania’s husband is six samples in and swaying like a decorative garden flag in a stiff breeze. He’s laughing too loudly, gesturing too broadly, and—unless my eyes are deceiving me—making unmistakable bedroom eyes at Carter over the rim of his tiny paper cup.

I lean in, tilting my head toward his. "You see that, right?"

Carter murmurs, "Please tell me you’re not about to say what I think you are."

"Oh, I absolutely am. Shania’s husband is flirting with you."

"He is not."

"He complimented your shoulders for a full minute."

"He said I had good posture."

"That was foreplay."

Carter sighs. "This neighborhood is exhausting."