Page 108 of Icing on the Cake

Oh, gosh. It kind of does sound like that, doesn’t it?

Maybe it’s because I’m bored out of my mind right now. Or maybe it’s because whenever I think about Elliot, I get this tingling in my belly that makes me act loopy. Either way, I answer Jackson in a way I usually wouldn’t.

Me

Only if you want me to be ;)

Three little dots appear, vanish, then pop up again. The suspense of whether I made a huge mistake is killing me. Another five minutes later, he responds.

Jackson

I think you made me hard…

How does one o’clock sound?

The belly laugh that rips out of me echoes through the lecture hall, bouncing off the walls and drawing everyone’s attention.

Professor Daniels stops mid-sentence, his marker frozen in the air as he glares at me. “Mr. Gunnarson, is there something about my lecture that you find particularly amusing?”

My face turns a shade of red that not even a mother could love. “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

I slump down in my seat, wishing the ceiling would cave in on me. Professor Daniels stares at me with the same intensity as Coach does when I try to make excuses for a missed play on the ice being too slippery.

“I’m watching you, Mr. Gunnarson,” he warns before picking up where he left off.

I return my attention to my phone. Jackson’s message, “I think you made me hard,” stares back at me, the words practically leaping off the screen.

I smirk, resisting the urge to laugh again.

Me

You should probably do something about that, then. And one o’clock sounds swell. See you then!

Jackson surveys the Hockey House,from the mismatched furniture to the team photos on the walls and the various knickknacks littered about. “Wow. It looks so normal without ghosts and goblins lurking in the corners.”

I chuckle, remembering how the house had been transformed for Halloween. “Yeah, we clean up pretty good. I can’t promise no monsters are hiding under some of the beds, though.”

Jackson snorts. “As long as they don’t try to steal my coffee-soaked clothes, I’ll be fine.”

I grimace, reminded of how I clumsily spilled my coffee all over Jackson when I tried to talk to him about my feelings for Elliot. Nerves had made my hand shake uncontrollably, and the coffee mug slipped from my grasp, shattering on the table and splashing hot coffee everywhere.

Somehow, I managed to escape mostly unscathed. But Jackson? He ended up soaked.

I push open my bedroom door and usher Jackson inside. For the first time, I’m not embarrassed by the mess. Because there is no mess. Ever since Elliot moved in, he’s taken it upon himself to keep things cleaner than the White House.

I have to admit, I kind of like it this way—all neat and organized. Elliot was appalled at the dirty laundry I had all over the place, and he was even more appalled when he found that pair of crusty socks.

In truth, I hadn’t thought about cleanliness that much. Growing up, my mom always took care of laundry and cleaning. Now, living with a bunch of guys in the Hockey House, we sort of let things pile up until someone’s girlfriend takes pity on us and does a massive cleanup.

But Elliot? He attacked my mess with the devotion of a neat freak on a mission—scrubbing, folding, and putting things away until the room sparkled.

“You know cleaning my room isn’t a requirement, right?” I told him after he cleaned for the tenth time in two days. “The chores in this house are more along the lines of washing the dishes, grocery shopping, and vacuuming the living room.”

“If I’m going to be spending time in here, I need it to be somewhat bearable,” he grumbled, not tearing his eyes off the stack of books he was organizing.

That made me unreasonably happy—him talking as if living here would be a permanent thing, not an “until next semester” thing.

And because of that, I’ve made a concerted effort to keep it nice. Partly because I know how much it bothers himwhen things are messy. But mostly because I’ve come to appreciate what he’s done. Having a clean room makes my mind less cluttered, and now I can focus on what’s important.

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