Page 16 of The Gaybor War

He lifts the cup in a mock toast. "Carter, it’s ten a.m. on a Saturday in a neighborhood called Morningwood. I think day drinking is basically a zoning requirement."

My jaw tightens. He just smirks wider.

Damn it, he’s right.

Donna perks up, tapping her pen. "You know what we do need? Someone to design the flyer. A nice, professional one. Something that says, ‘wholesome yet chic.’"

Benji sits up a little straighter, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Well, look no further. Our very own Carter works in finance, which basically means he loves spreadsheets and Helvetica."

Every head turns toward me.

I blink, feeling the weight of a man being smothered by expectation. "Excuse me?"

Benji gestures magnanimously, as if introducing a celebrity. "He’s detail-oriented, punctual, hates fun—he’s perfect."

"I don’t do graphic design," I say flatly.

Benji grins. "You can delegate. I am a graphic designer. We’ll collaborate. You bring the corporate precision; I bring the aesthetic genius."

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Donna claps her hands. "Wonderful! Carter and Benji will make the flyer."

"I didn’t⁠—"

"It’s settled!" she chirps. "Meeting adjourned."

The others scatter like happy pigeons, leaving me staring across the lawn at Benji, who looks far too pleased with himself.

He slurps from his straw. "Teamwork makes the dream work, Carter."

"You ambushed me."

He shrugs. "You looked bored."

"I was bored."

"You’re welcome."

He flashes a smile so blinding I forget what oxygen is for a second. And then he winks—actually winks—collects his chair, and turns back toward his house, hips swishing with deliberate exaggeration.

I exhale slowly.

This neighborhood is going to be the death of me.

Benji’s house smells like citrus cleaner and audacity.

He waves me in with a flourish.

"Welcome to the design den, where creativity meets caffeine addiction."

The "den" is his kitchen table—half-covered in magazines, stickers, colored pens, and one suspiciously empty wine glass. His laptop’s open to a template that looks like a birthday invitation for toddlers.

I stare at it, seriously doubting his professional skills as a graphic designer. "That’s… a lot of fonts."

Benji peers at the screen. "Yeah, it’s giving ransom note, isn’t it?"

"I think the word you’re looking for is chaotic."