Page 37 of The Gaybor War

"Please," I huff. "If I were following you, you’d be flattered."

"I’m not."

"You will be," I murmur, mostly to myself.

He gives me a look—equal parts disbelief and reluctant amusement—and gets into his car.

I watch him drive off, smirking to myself as I bite into a strawberry that is way too sweet for 10 a.m.

"Wilbur," I whisper to the zucchini still in my basket, "today was a good day."

I head home with a tote full of overpriced produce and the faint scent of Carter Reed’s cologne still clinging to my sleeve—something citrusy and uptight. The girls had dispersed after their husbands showed up with the kids, all of them offering increasingly unhinged pep talks about "manifesting romance," and I’d waved them off with promises to "manifest something, all right."

Back in my kitchen, I unload my spoils like a man preparing for a date with destiny. The zucchini, Wilbur Jr., goes in the sink for a rinse. The candle—sandalwood and something called Amber Moonlight, which I’m pretty sure is just marketing code for gay and expensive—is lit. The flame flickers as if it knows secrets.

I set the vegetable on the counter, lean against the edge, and laugh to myself. "Grill it or audition it," I mutter, remembering the way Carter’s jaw had ticked at the joke. That perfect little micro-flinch that said, I’m pretending I don’t get flustered, but I absolutely do. Delicious.

I towel Wilbur off, place him neatly beside a bowl of lemons, and slide the candle into the frame. Filters. Lighting. Angle. Caption. Saturdays are for self-care

Post.

Taking a sip of cold brew, I stare at the candle flame again. "You and me, buddy," I say to Wilbur. "We’re gonna make that man snap."

Because the thing about Carter Reed is—he’s wound so tight, you can practically hear him hum when you walk by. Every button on that Oxford of his is hanging on for dear life. And me? I’ve got time, taste, and a pool. Well, a community pool.

So, yeah. Maybe a new piece of debauched swimwear. Or a garden gnome with a suspicious resemblance to him. Or something subtler. Something that says I’m not doing this to get your attention—while being entirely, nakedly, and shamelessly all about getting his attention.

I smile wider, already picturing his frown when he spots it from across our hedges.

"Game on, spreadsheet Daddy."

Chapter 12

The girls show up on a Tuesday evening with enough donation boxes to outfit a small theater troupe. I’m elbows deep in boiling pasta when the doorbell rings, and suddenly my living room smells like perfume, gossip, and Chardonnay.

Each is holding a box full of what appears to be discarded wardrobes from every decade since the seventies.

"Clothing drive!" Candace announces, already brushing past me like this is a scheduled drop-off. "Benji said you’d help organize."

Of course he did.

Apparently, this is what "community involvement" looks like.

My pasta bubbles over behind me, and steam fogs the window over the sink, the perfect metaphor for my evening unraveling.

I turn off the burner. "You know, the HOA didn’t say anything about this being a group project."

Shania waves a sequined scarf. "We thought you might like the company, sweetheart."

Malia shrugs. "Besides, sorting clothes alone is depressing."

We start off well enough with sensible piles for Keep, Donate, and Burn Immediately. But two glasses of wine later, it’s descended into a chaotic fashion montage.

Music plays as the women try on prom dresses over yoga pants and skinny jeans, and my floor has become a fashion battlefield.

Malia tries on a rhinestone jacket that could blind a small child, which Shania promptly throws into the keep box. Candace finds a pair of leather pants she swears will "breathe once they stretch." Kiki keeps draping brightly colored scarves over the pear-shaped lamp I never should’ve bought.

And I’m just trying to remember how to breathe in a room full of people who talk in exclamation points.