Page 125 of The Gaybor War

We both stare across the room at Shania’s husband, who is now telling a story with interpretive gestures.

"We are not behaving," Carter agrees.

At some point, Eunice corners us with a clipboard.

"I’ve been meaning to ask," she says brightly, "what do you boys think about adding a holiday couples gingerbread house decorating contest?"

Carter stiffens, already sensing disaster.

I beam. "Only if we get matching aprons."

She claps. "Oh, I knew you two would be fun."

When she leaves, Carter exhales. "I don’t understand how you survive this place."

"I thrive. There’s a difference."

He shakes his head, lips twitching. "You’re impossible."

I bump my shoulder into his. "Yes, but you keep coming back for more."

He glances at me with something warm and appreciative in his eyes. "Yeah. I do."

As we stand there sipping cider, watching the neighborhood unravel in slow motion, and laughing under our breath like we share a private frequency, I think—not for the first time—that chaos makes a lot more sense when you’re facing it with someone else.

Carter shakes his head as he watches Kiki drag her youngest out the door, the kid’s shoes stickily squelching against the linoleum with every whiny step.

"FYI: We’re skipping the pumpkin roll. We can read all about the highlights in the Morningwood Minute."

Wrapping my arm around his waist, I steer him toward the door.

"Deal. You can take me out to dinner instead."

As we’re walking home, hand in hand, my phone dings with a notification.

"Oh great, they’ve already posted our official couple’s picture in the Morningwood Minute."

Carter laughs. "Do yourself a favor and silence the comments."

Chapter 31

As Neighborhood Watch Captain, it's my job to make sure nothing is happening on my street besides trick-or-treating, though I occasionally turn a blind eye if certain members of the HOA board get their trees toilet-papered.

Carter stands beside me on my porch in jeans and a black T-shirt that says BOO! in block letters. That’s it. That’s the whole look.

"That’s your costume?"

"Yes."

"That’s not a costume."

"It says boo."

"You look like you stopped trying halfway through a thought."

"I look comfortable."

I glance down at my boots, open shirt, sash, sword, and hat, the full dramatic production. The breeze lifts the edge of my coat, and I feel ridiculous and spectacular in equal measure.