Page 37 of Cold as Ice

“Personality. You have one. That’s what your prof was talking about too, with your voice. Those little snarky asides about me? About our team? About how Ramsey doesn’t know how to stop smirking at anything that moves? And how Ivan is way too stoic? All of that.”

“Ah. Okay.” Mal nodded. “I think I understand. That’s . . .” He cleared his throat. “I don’t normally focus on any of that. I always thought it was extraneous. Unimportant.”

“It’s the opposite, man,” Elliott said, punching him lightly in the arm. “It’s what makes life interesting and fascinating and every single day different.”

“Oh. Huh. I never thought of it that way.” Mal looked genuinely surprised. Maybe not pleased, but contemplative.

That alone—besides the love of reading—was why Elliott loved books. Loved experiencing different perspectives on things. Often they made him see the world differently than he had before.

“You’re welcome,” Elliott said, patting him one last time and sliding out of the booth. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but he also hadn’t wanted Mal to tell him to get out. To remove himself from his personal bubble.

Let’s share it again, soon, okay?

Mal cleared his throat. “You finish those problems yet?”

“Just about done,” Elliott said, flashing him a grin. “Give me five.”

Six minutes later, by his watch, he’d passed the notebook across the table to Mal, and as he finished his smoothie, Mal’s gaze skimmed over the page.

“These are all right,” he said, with an approving nod.

Old Elliott would’ve taken offense to that. Would’ve seen that as patronizing approval that he didn’t need or want.

But Elliott understood this guy a little better now. It helped to not constantly misunderstand him or interpret everything he said and did in the worst possible light.

“Awesome. You fix your essay yet?”

“Working on it,” Malcolm said. Hesitated. “I’m only asking this because . . .well, I don’t know why I’m asking it, really.” Suddenly, he seemed more flustered than Elliott had ever seen him before. “Okay. No. That’s not true. I know why I’m asking. Because I don’t get B’s, and this professor has made it clear this isn’t A work. Would you . . .couldyou . . .”

Elliott grinned. “Yes, Malcolm, I’ll look over your paper for you after you finish editing it.”

“Thanks,” Mal said. He was flushed now, andGod, it was an attractive look on him.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” But Elliott had known it was. Maybe not for anyone else, but for Malcolm.

No doubt his dad had instilled this idea that accepting help made you weak, or whatever bullshit they were cloaking toxic masculinity in these days.

Mal rolled his eyes, but before he ducked his head down, Elliott swore he got a flash of a smile.

They hadn’t agreed to spend the rest of the evening studying together, but Sammy’s was open until midnight, and it was warm and comfortable, and apparently neither of them wanted to move.

Okay,Elliotthadn’t intended to leave, not until he got kicked out, but to his surprise, Malcolm made no move to pack up and go, even after he clearly moved on to the next item on his to do list, pulling out a thick workbook that proclaimed on the front it was about creating business plans.

Elliott wanted to tease him about it, but he didn’t want to remind Mal that he was stillvoluntarilyspending time with him, either.

Elliott did his new problems for statistics and felt likeyes, it was getting slightly more comprehensible, then pulled a much smaller book out of his bag.

That was when Mal looked up. “Wuthering Heights?” he asked.

“Don’t tell me you’ve not heard of Emily Brontë,” Elliott said with faux seriousness.

“It does ring a bell,” Mal said. He waved at Elliott’s book. “Is that for a class? Or just because you like reading?”

“Can’t it be both?” Elliott wondered.

“I . . .uh, Iguessso.” Mal rubbed his neck.

“In this case, for a class. Nineteenth century lit.”

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