Page 42 of The Gaybor War

"You, uh. You busy today?"

Oh.

Oh.

I keep my expression mild. Pleasant. "Not really. On my way to fix these unfortunate toes." I wiggle them in my slides for emphasis. "Gotta keep my options open in case this graphic design thing doesn’t pan out, and I need to pivot to selling feet pics."

Color rises in his cheeks as his memory catches up to him. I don’t help him out of it. I smile. Not wide. Not smug. Just enough.

"Well," I say, stepping back, "I should get going. Nice seeing you." I turn away before he can recover.

Behind me, his hesitation becomes a living entity. I can feel the moment he realizes something’s shifted, and he doesn’t know how or why. That unsettled pause where control slips, just a fraction.

I don’t look back. I don’t need to. Carter Reed is off-balance. And I clock it instantly.

Interesting.

If you’re going to reject me, Carter Reed, you’re going to have to do it again. Slower this time. And to my face.

The pool smells like charcoal, chlorine, and poor decisions.

I arrive late on purpose. Not fashionably—strategically.

The barbecue is already in full swing. The couple from Rut Deep Drive are arguing over tongs. The newly divorced dad from Bushy Trail is aggressively shaking a bottle of sunscreen like it owes him money. A fat dollop finally splooges out across his lap, and I bite back my laugh as his scruffy cheeks turn redder than a fresh sunburn. Kiki’s kids are running laps at unsafe speeds, which tells me no one is watching them closely enough. Again. I glance at my friend and see her face buried in a smutty paperback. One of mine, I bet.

I strip down to my swim shorts without ceremony.

They’re red, short, and fitted. The kind of shorts that don’t apologize for toned thighs. I can feel the shift immediately. The pause. The awareness. Even without looking, I know Carter’s here.

I sit on the edge of a lounger and start rubbing sunscreen into my arms. Slow. Practical. No eye contact. If I were petty—and I am—I’d turn and catch him watching. But I don’t.

Weaponized normalcy means discipline.

"Just a heads up," I say casually, still focused on my shoulder, "you might want to steer clear of the shallow end."

Carter’s voice comes from my right. Too close. "Why?"

"Kiki’s kids have that look again. The one that says they’ve already peed, they’re thinking about peeing again, and they’re fully prepared to do it. They’ve already knocked back four juice boxes in the twenty minutes I’ve been here."

There’s a beat of silence before he says, "Good to know."

I finally glance up and catch him staring at my feet. My pedicure, to be precise. The pale blue polish says I have opinions but also boundaries.

Then his gaze betrays him. It slides and lingers over my chest, my stomach, and my thighs. He looks away too fast. Silence stretches heavily.

I don’t fill it, but I acknowledge it with a pointed look.

Carter shifts, clears his throat, and slides his shades over his eyes, presumably to hide from me.

"So," he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near strained, "I saw you signed up for… whatever’s coming up next."

I hum, as if I’m thinking. "Did I?"

"The… uh. The power wash demonstration." He gestures vaguely.

"Oh, that." I cap the sunscreen and finally look up at him towering over me. "Yeah. Figured I’d help. They promised Chuck really knows how to handle his stream."

His eyes flick to my face, then away again. "You’re very… involved."