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“Yeah?”

“You zoned out again. Were you picturing me naked?”

“What?” I bark out a laugh that even sounds fake to me.

“It’s okay if you were. I am a bit of a TikTok star. I’m almost at one million views for the dance in front of the fountain,” he says with an annoying smirk that’s a little bit sexy.

“Thanks to my amazing filming abilities. Which you didn’t credit me for.”

“Yes,” he says flatly. “It had nothing at all to do with the routine I spent hours perfecting.”

“Actually,” I say, noticing my open notebook just inches away from Axel, and remembering why I asked him to come over in the first place, “let’s go over the contract.”

“You and this contract. Is my word not enough for you?” he asks, shifting onto his side and propping his head up with this hand.

“It’s absolutely not enough for me. Move over,” I say, grabbing the notebook. Axel sits up and leans against my headboard. I join him. “These are the terms and agreements,” I say, placing the notebook in his lap.

“You typed this on the computer, then pasted it into the notebook?”

“Yes. This notebook is my lifeline. Don’t worry, I’ll make you a copy of the contract.”

“Oh good,” he says, deadpan, before cracking a warm smile. He makes his way through the document. “I’m surprised you included everything you said you’d do.”

“My word is gold.”

“I see that.” He clears his throat, then reads his side of the contract:

“1.Pretend to be Jamie’s boyfriend leading up to winter formal.

2.Agree to waive half the cost of the repairs for Betty White to $225. Final payment to be received no later than the eve of winter formal.

3.Find ways to make Ben jealous. Bonus points for orchestrating situations for him to speak to Jamie.”

He stops reading and glances up at me. “Is this it?”

I shrug.

“It’s just there are five items for you to complete on my behalf and I’m only looking at three on my list to do for you.”

“I guess I’m just not as demanding as you are.” I smile.

He smiles back, and once again I’m suddenly very aware that Axel and I are sitting on my bed, alone, together.

“Can I flip through the rest of this notebook or is it private?” he asks.

“Go ahead. I have no secrets.”

Axel flips through the pages, laughing and asking me questions about some of my past goals and marveling about how, up until this year, I’ve managed to check each and every one of them off. Easy enough to do when they’re all mostly academically based.

“Ah, the infamous bucket list branch of the Kill-It List,” he says when he lands on the collage. “You’ve really never been to the aquarium?”

“No.”

“Not the ROM either? Or a hockey game? You’re telling me you never went to the CN Tower, even in grade school?”

“My class did,” I say. “But I begged my mom to let me stay home that day.”

“Because you’re claustrophobic?”