Page 116 of Icing on the Cake

“Something…or someone?” he asks.

“Both.”

25

ELLIOT

“Elliot!” Gerard stands in the lobby, a giant slab of beef in a pink suit and bowtie that looks ready to burst at the seams. The outfit is hideous, but it’s also kind of amazing—like a flamingo had an identity crisis and decided to become a bodybuilder.

His wavy blond hair is mussed, and his blue eyes are frantic as he scans the room. Even from here, I can see how the tight trousers struggle with his hockey butt. The whole ensemble screams, but not as loudly as he just did.

He spots me at the circulation desk and rushes over. I sink lower into my chair.

“Elliot, I need to?—”

I hold up a finger. “Gerard. We’re in a library.”

Sarah smirks and adjusts her ponytail. She’s enjoying this way too much.

“I need to talk to you,” Gerard whispers, which for him is still loud enough to carry across the stacks.

I look down at the chessboard. Sarah has me cornered, and she knows it. We’ve been at this for an hour, and I’m stalling because I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of winning.

“We’re kind of in the middle of something,” I say.

Sarah shrugs. “I don’t mind pausing.”

Of course, she doesn’t. She knows she’s already won.

Gerard shifts on his enormous feet, his black loafers making little squeaking sounds.Did I mention that he’s wearing pink dress socks?

“It’ll just take a second,” Gerard huffs.

I give him the talk-to-the-hand gesture and turn back to the chessboard. Sarah’s grin is insufferable, but I’d rather endure that than whatever Gerard thinks is so urgent.

“Fine,” Gerard says. He sounds hurt, but I don’t look up.

I study the pieces, trying to see a way out. Sarah leans back in her chair and stretches like a cat who just ate a canary. She’s about to say something smug when Gerard lunges forward and starts swiping at the board.

“Hey!” Sarah and I shout in unison.

Gerard’s massive hands move with surprising speed and precision, repositioning knights, bishops, and pawns like he’s rearranging furniture. In three seconds, he steps back and crosses his arms. “Checkmate.”

We stare at the board, then at each other, then back at the board. He’s right. My queen has Sarah’s king pinned down with no escape route. It’s a goddamn miracle.

“You know how to play?” I ask, incredulous.

Gerard shrugs. “I’m not completely dumb, you know.”

Sarah mutters something under her breath that sounds like “fucking jock” as she glares at the board.

“Where’d you learn to play?” I stare up at him in wonder, still gobsmacked at the fact I’m still learning so much about him.

Gerard loosens his bowtie. “My mom taught me during a blizzard when I was ten. We were snowed in for three days, and she got sick of me whining about being bored.”

I picture a tiny, chubby ten-year-old Gerard with the same wavy blond hair, pouting as he moves pawns around a checkered board. It’s absurdly adorable.

“That explains the outfit,” Sarah says. “Did your mom pick that out, too?”

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