Page 17 of The Gaybor War

He props his chin on his hand, smiling. "Good. Chaos gets attention."

He would know. I sigh, setting my laptop beside his. "We’re supposed to attract buyers, not warn them off."

"Who says those can’t be the same thing?" He grins, clearly enjoying himself.

Am I supposed to believe people pay him money for his design opinion? There’s no way in hell he’s making a decent living with those shabby skills.

While he fiddles with a flamingo clip art file, I open a spreadsheet template because at least that makes sense. He leans over to look. Too close. Sunblock and laundry detergent cloud my judgement.

"Oh my God," he gasps. "It’s color-coded."

"It’s efficient."

"It’s tragic," he counters.

"I’m starting to think you invited me over just to insult my workflow."

Benji winks, flashing his whiskey eyes at me. "I invited you over because you’re fun to rile up. The flyer’s just foreplay."

My fingers freeze over the keys. "Y-You can’t just say things like that."

"Why not? It’s true."

"Because—" I start, then catch myself. He wants me to react, and I refuse to give this man what he wants. "Never mind."

He’s still glowing when he finally hits print. The first page slides out, covered in bold text, flamingo borders, and one suspiciously risqué tagline:

"Morningwood Estates Yard Sale: Check out the Junk in our Trunks."

I choke on my next breath. "You’re not serious."

Benji beams. "Oh, I’m very serious. It’s eye-catching, it’s community-oriented, and it’s slightly dirty. That’s the trifecta."

"I’m not putting my name on that."

"You already did," he says sweetly, pointing at the bottom corner where it reads Flyer designed by Benji Stewart and Carter Reed.

He’s insufferable. And infuriating. And when he looks up at me like that—eyes twinkling, lips curved just a little too knowingly—I think, why does someone so damn attractive have to be this impossible?

By the time we’re stapling flyers to the neighborhood notice board, I’m questioning every life choice that’s brought me here.

Benji wields the staple gun as if it were a weapon. "You’re aiming too low," he says. "No one reads at crotch height."

I glare. "Then stop looking."

He smirks. "Can’t. Occupational hazard."

My eyes roll skyward. "I’m going to file a complaint with the HOA."

He gasps. "You wouldn’t dare betray your flyer co-chair."

"I would absolutely dare."

"You’re still sour about that font fiasco."

"Font—what—" I realize too late he means the ‘Check out the Junk in our Trunks’ thing. "That wasn’t a fiasco. It was sabotage."

Benji’s grin widens. "Semantics."