Page 35 of The Gaybor War

"Benji," I whisper, voice cracking, "I⁠—"

"Yep," he interrupts with a chuckle, clearly delighted, "you’re officially dangerous."

I swallow. My chest rises and falls quickly. "You… you’re insane."

"But," he says, stepping back just enough to tease, "you like it. A touch of Benji looks good on you, Carter Reed."

I blink, trying to process the audacity—and the heat—radiating from him. My pulse races. My brain scrambles. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny, rebellious part whispers: He’s right. I do.

Chapter 11

Saturday mornings are for brunch, gossip, and pretending mimosas count as hydration.

The girls and I decided to start early this week—eight a.m. early—so we could hit the farmers market before it gets crowded. Which, in Morningwood, means before Eunice sells out of her "award-winning aubergines" and before someone’s toddler pees in the tomato crate again.

Kiki’s hair is already swept up in a messy bun of surrender, and she yawns wide enough to make her jaw crack and accidentally takes a sip from her youngest’s sippy cup of orange juice before grimacing and reaching for her own champagne-laced glass. She eyes me over the rim.

"You realize we’re drinking before most people have finished brushing their teeth, right?"

I clink my glass against hers. "I have no problem drinking at 8 a.m. Some people meditate. I choose Prosecco."

Candace lowers her sunglasses, expression sliding into sly amusement. "Speaking of morning rituals… guess who we saw power-walking shirtless yesterday?"

I groan. "If you say Carter Reed⁠—"

"Carter Reed," Kiki says, with a little squeal that could probably summon him if we tried hard enough.

"He’s so hot, Benji," Candace adds in that conspiratorial tone.

The way they say it—He’s so hot, Benji—as if I’m supposed to mount the man in gratitude, drives me nuts.

"Yeah, yeah. He’s cute. In that ‘I pay extra for extended warranties’ kind of way."

They laugh, but I can feel the heat creep up my neck. Because sure, maybe he’s hot. Okay, definitely hot. But he’s also annoyingly symmetrical, clean-cut, and probably exfoliates his elbows.

"He’s grumpy," I add quickly. "He gives me IRS energy. Probably audits his own feelings."

Malia snorts. "And yet, you’ve mentioned him three times this morning."

"Pure coincidence," I say, finishing my mimosa. "Now let’s go buy overpriced vegetables and judge people’s fashion choices." Starting with Mr. Reed himself.

By the time we finish our third round of "breakfast," the sun’s high and the market’s in full swing. We stroll past tables of honey, handmade soaps, and vegetables shaped vaguely like body parts.

Eunice has her stand front and center, displaying her organic produce as though it’s auditioning for a centerfold. There’s a sign that says, ‘Size Matters (When It Comes to Flavor)’, because of course there is.

I’m mid-eye roll when I spot Carter in all of his magnificent cargo-shorts glory. He’s over at Eunice’s booth, sporting sunglasses and a fitted polo that’s doing terrible things to my ability to breathe normally. He’s holding a zucchini like he’s about to write a dissertation on squash density, inspecting it with the same focus I use for judging reality TV contestants.

Kiki elbows me. "He’s right there. Go say hi."

I roll my eyes. "I’m not saying hi. I’m just… casually shopping in his general vicinity."

Candace smirks. "Sure, Benji. Totally different."

I grab a basket I don’t need and make my way over.

He’s still studying the zucchini. His brow furrows. "Too soft," he mutters to himself.

I lean in, my voice sugar and mischief. "You looking to grill that or audition it for a date?"