Page 95 of The Gaybor War

The chocolate cake arrives. Benji takes a bite. His eyes close. "Oh, wow."

I make the mistake of looking up. His expression is entirely too satisfied for a man eating baked goods. He takes another bite. Slowly.

I immediately regret maintaining visual contact, and I take a long sip of water that does nothing to cool me off. He goes in for another bite, slower this time.

"Carter."

"What?"

"You're staring."

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

I stare at the wall and think about spreadsheets and the PH balance of the soil around my hydrangeas. Anything to avoid watching his throat bob as he swallows.

"You make eating dessert weird."

"I am literally eating cake."

"Exactly."

He laughs so hard he nearly chokes. The sound settles somewhere inconvenient inside my chest. Eventually he slides the plate toward me.

"Try it."

I do, and damn it, it's excellent.

Benji looks unbearably smug. "See?"

"I hate when you're right."

"No, you don't."

The annoying thing is that he's correct.

"I’m paying," I say automatically when the server comes.

Benji arches a brow. "Because you’re driving?"

"No, because I’m paying. That’s that."

"Cute, but I invited you. I’m paying."

"I don’t need you to⁠—"

"I insist," he says lightly, already handing over his card. "Let me do something nice without turning it into a moral dilemma."

I close my mouth.

We get back in the car with the windows down and the music lower, as if we’re both pretending something has cooled off.

It hasn’t.

His elbow presses against mine as we merge back onto the highway, and it stays there. Neither of us moves.

"Okay." His voice is calmer, less mischievous. "Truce?"