Page 41 of Cold as Ice

Austin’s slight standoffishness melted right away.

If only Malcolm was this easy.

“Ell,” Ivan complained, whacking him in the back. “Stop flirting and start ordering. We have to get to practice soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a second.” He turned back to Austin. “Cold brew. Room for milk.”

“Any sweetener?” Austin grinned. “Or are you sweet enough?”

“Oh, baby, I’m plenty sweet enough.”

“Could’ve guessed that.”

Next to him, Ivan made a very obvious vomit noise.

After he paid and Ivan practically dragged him away towards the other end of the front counter, he hissed, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I can draw you a diagram, if you’d like.”

“You don’t want this guy,” Ivan said bluntly. “You didn’t even remember his name.”

“I . . .” But he couldn’t really claim he had, and he didn’t want to lie to Ivan. He’d only ever been a great friend and teammate.

“Exactly. You shouldn’t lead him on. Not when you’re . . .” Ivan cleared his throat.

“Not when I’mwhat.” Elliott had a feeling he knew what Ivan was about to say—and why he’d stopped. And Elliott wanted him to fuckingsay it.

“Aw, Ell, you know what’s going on with you two. You want Mal to want you, and he doesn’t know how to want anybody.”

It was exactly what Elliott had hoped—and dreaded—that Ivan would say.

“Maybe,” Elliott said lightly, eying Austin over the espresso machine as he helped the next set of customers.

“Ramsey told me he suggested you seduce him—but then you just didnothing.”

“Why are you listening to Ramsey?”

“As much as I try not to, the guy has a pointandhe has a history of actually knowing something about how to get someone into bed.”

Normally, Ivan had a bluntness that Elliott liked. No worries about other shoes dropping, or finding out a secret, insidious truth. Not with Ivan. He didn’t even know how to lie.

“And I don’t know how to get a guy into bed?”

“These boys that pant after you ’cause you’re a cute hockey player, sure. ButMal? I don’t think you have a clue.”

There was that trademark Ivan honesty. It cut, yes, but it also often provided clarity.

Today, it did the latter.

How good had it felt to just sit there and study with the guy? To hug him?

And Malcolm had liked it too. Elliott knew he had.

Don’t just tell him you want him. Makehimwantyou.

The other barista called Ivan’s name and he picked up his gross marshmallow-salted caramel-pumpkin spice monstrosity.

“I don’t know how you drink that,” Elliott said, watching as Ivan guzzled it.

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