Page 21 of The Gaybor War

I fold over my knees, wheezing. My shades slip down my nose. I look up just in time to see Carter pinch the bridge of his nose, physically restraining himself from screaming.

He finally sighs. "Fine. Twelve."

Eunice beams, counting the bills with exacting slowness. She crinkles each one to make sure none are sticking together. "See? Everyone wins when you don’t get greedy."

When she toddles off, triumphant, Carter mutters something I can’t quite catch but sounds suspiciously like, "I hate this place."

"Aw, come on," I call, still laughing. "She’s just testing your community spirit."

He shoots me a look over his sunglasses that could curdle milk. "You enjoy this, don’t you?"

"Immensely."

"I can tell." Carter shakes his head, half amused though he’s clearly trying not to be. "You really do love this circus, huh?"

I lift my cup in salute. "What can I say? I’m the ringmaster."

After two more hours, the sun hits that point where everyone’s sweat is visible, and the iced coffees are exchanged for cold beers. It’s the perfect time to liven things up a little.

Across the street, Carter rearranges his sad, dignified little table as if it’s a museum exhibit. Nobody’s biting.

Meanwhile, I’ve already sold half of my stuff. Turns out all it takes is charm, a decent smile, and a willingness to claim that any random tchotchke has a story.

(Does the ceramic frog lamp have a story? No. Did I make one up involving a forbidden romance between two rival terrarium designers? Absolutely.)

But Carter? The man could be selling Beyoncé’s discarded gum and still make it sound drier than a math lecture.

I take pity. Or maybe I’m just bored. Either way, I open the Morningwood Minute group chat.

Benji: PSA: Hot neighbor across the street is selling books, records, and quiet disappointment. Stop by and make him smile.

Carter’s phone buzzes. He looks at it, then at me. His jaw tightens in slow motion. He mouths, What did you do?

I give him my most innocent smile and lift my tumbler in a toast.

Five minutes later, three ladies happen to wander over to his table.

"Oh, Carter," Shania trills, "Benji said you were selling rare vinyls!"

He stutters. "I—what?"

"And I heard you’re offering a Hot Neighbor Discount!" Malia adds, all sparkly eyes and mischief.

The look on his face could power a small city.

"I am not offering a—" he starts, but it’s too late. They’re giggling, flipping through his records, fawning as if he’s the grand prize on The Bachelor: HOA Edition.

I lose it. I have to physically bite my straw to keep from bursting out laughing.

Eventually, he extricates himself, stalks across the street, and plants himself in front of my table.

"Did you seriously announce a ‘Hot Neighbor Discount’ on the group chat?"

I blink up at him. "Did I? Huh. Must’ve hit send by accident."

His voice drops, low and incredulous. "You’re unbelievable."

"Glad you finally noticed."