Page 14 of The Gaybor War

"Sexy," I mutter to myself. "Subtle. Totally subtle. Not embarrassing at all."

I glance again at Carter’s house. Maybe he’s watching. Maybe he’s judging. Maybe he’s secretly… impressed?

I shake my head. No. Dangerous thought. Dangerous, but… fun.

I decide on one last flourish: to sprint past his driveway as if it’s a slow-motion magazine cover, chest forward, arms pumping, and hair sticking annoyingly to my damp forehead.

Halfway through my grand finale, I trip slightly on a crack in the sidewalk and almost face-plant.

Yes, I’m living my best chaotic, very public, and slightly humiliating life. And yes. Boxer-briefs guy better notice—or at least appreciate the effort.

I hit the end of the block and finally slow to a staggered walk, gasping for air as though I’ve just survived a marathon. My shirt is plastered to my chest, water dripping off my nose. I’m trying to convince myself I meant to do all of this.

"Uh… you good there?"

I freeze. His voice is calm, dry, and totally unimpressed. Carter stands on his porch with one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans, the other holding a perfectly folded towel.

"I—uh—yes!" I sputter, waving vaguely. "I’m… fine. Totally fine. No emergency services required."

Carter tilts his head. "You sure? Because I was about to call 911."

I choke back a laugh, and maybe some water still lingering in my throat. "Really? That’s… sweet. Thoughtful. Overly responsible."

He steps off the porch, holding the towel as if it were a peace offering. "Here. You might want this."

I grab it, clinging as if it’s a lifeline. "Thanks… I think."

Carter squints at me, clearly trying to figure out if I’m actually competent or just spectacularly ridiculous. "You’re… dramatic," he deadpans.

"Dramatic is my brand."

I strike a pose that probably looks more like a wet, flailing bird than intentional flair and dab at my chest with the towel, trying not to think about how he’s standing there, arms crossed, casually witnessing my public humiliation.

"You might want to stick with speed walking next time instead of running," he adds, stepping back toward the safety of his porch.

"Oh, absolutely." My voice is tight with faux dignity. "Lesson learned. Safety first."

Inside, my inner monologue screams: He noticed! He actually noticed!

Carter just sips his coffee and watches me as if I’m a mildly irritating neighborhood exhibit.

And somewhere in that tension, I realize… this is going to be fun.

Chapter 6

Iturn into the subdivision after a long day of spreadsheets and meetings, looking forward to a quiet, civilized evening and a strong drink. The shorter commute has me in a great mood. But when I pull into the driveway, it’s instantly soured.

Benji’s sitting in a lawn chair in the middle of his yard. Sunlight catches his bare chest and somehow manages to highlight… everything. Shoulders, collarbones, pecs. Abdominal muscles tight enough to make me question every late-night donut I’ve ever eaten. And his posture—perfect. Relaxed but precise, as if he’s been coached by someone who moonlights as a mannequin stylist.

He tilts his head as he pretends to read a magazine. But of course, he’s not really reading. He’s displaying. Every angle calculated. Every subtle movement—shifting his legs, flexing his arms ever so slightly—screams, "I know I’m distracting, and I fully intend to capitalize on it."

And infuriatingly, I’m noticing. Everything. The curve of his jaw, the faint smirk at the corner of his lips. The way his hair glints when he brushes it back with a lazy flick of his fingers.

I hate it. I really hate it.

Of course, the most enticing body on the block had to come attached to the least enticing personality. Why does a face like that belong to someone I’d pay not to talk to me?

I grit my teeth, clench the steering wheel, and try to focus on the driveway. Ignore his perfectly sculpted arms. Ignore the sun bouncing off his smooth chest and the dewy glisten of his sweaty skin. Ignore the fact that he probably planned this entire tableau for maximum effect.