Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Maddox
Iven was an exuberant student. Not naturally gifted but eager to learn and improve.
I could picture a younger version of him easily.
Staying after class, asking thousands of questions—bright, brilliant, and full of life.
With the proper teacher, I had no doubt there wasn’t a single skill he couldn’t learn.
From the moment I’d seen him, standing at the register, a smile on his face, and a wicked glint to his glasses, I’d been embarrassingly smitten.
The more time we spent together, and the more I learned about him, the more true that became.
Which was frustrating, given how clearly he’d stated he wasn’t interested in me in that way.
I had to tamp down my feelings—which was fine, though more and more difficult as our sessions grew longer, and Iven’s blue eyes grew more familiar.
Iven listened when I spoke.
And if his cheeks went pink when I stepped in close, that was no fault of his own. Just the chill, seeping into his skin. It certainly didn’t mean that my feelings were requited, even if my heart wished that were true.
After two weeks of training sessions, Iven’s sculpting was somewhat…tolerable to look at.
Not artful but… straightforward. Kind of like him.
Roses looked like roses.
Candles looked like candles.
And the swan Iven had constructed looked…mostly like a swan. A somewhat blobby swan, yes, but a swan, nonetheless.
Iven’s food was passable, too. Not amazing. Not the way my mother used to cook. But I could tell he tried, and I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had a home-cooked meal—so for me, Iven’s food was pretty damn close to Nirvana.
He cooked for me, as per our deal. After he’d gone home on the days he’d visit, I’d sit at my table with Brutus’s head on my knee and enjoy every last bite. The clock above the mantel would tick, tick, the silence deafening.
And I’d find myself wondering if Iven were here, what he’d say to fill the quiet.
He acted allergic to that.
To silence.
Like allowing a moment to settle was fundamentally wrong. Had that stemmed from his childhood? Maybe. Perhaps his home had been too quiet. Perhaps they’d never been home at all. Maybe that was why he’d pursued this competition in the first place. Maybe Iven wasn’t used to positive attention.
It was nice that he thought of me as a winner.
I’d certainly never thought of myself as that.
Winning and losing were things I’d never cared about.
I entered the contest because I enjoyed carving ice.
I sought things that made me feel peace, that gave me purpose.
And if I was lonely…and craved a sense of community, well, I’d never really thought that was a bad thing.
It was nice to enjoy the townies’ chatter during the competition.
Even nicer still that no one expected me to find the words to talk back.
Iven’s chaos was unfamiliar, and I shouldn’t have been as drawn to it as I was.
But there was no denying that pull.
The desire to watch him. To observe every blink, every smile, every shape his mouth made as he chatted and chattered and chittered away.
His mustache quivered when he laughed, framing his mouth in a disarmingly attractive way.
Iven laughed often. He was louder than the woodpecker who woke me up most mornings.
When Iven was around, there was always noise of some sort. Muffled mumbles under his breath, the rustling of his clothes, and outright questions—like the sound of his own voice comforted him.
I hadn’t thought I’d like that.
I was wrong.
Because as the weeks passed by and the silent meals continued, my need to hear more of Iven’s noise grew.
As did the way I enjoyed him. I got the feeling the desire to see one another was mutual, as lately, Iven had been lingering after our sessions.
He’d watch me, those bright eyes dark, and I’d wonder what kind of secrets he hid inside them.
What made him tick.
How I could get him to smile again.
Which was why, on an unremarkable Wednesday in November, I bit the bullet and texted him. We didn’t have a training session planned, so I could only hope he was free.
Me: Dinner?
Iven took hardly any time to reply, even though it was the middle of a workday. Funny. I could only guess that meant he had his phone on him at all times.
Iven: With you? Tonight?
I liked the way he assumed. It made me happy. Helped fill in the gaps where my words often struggled. If he was a well of communication, I was a rusted, leaky faucet.
Me: Yes.
Iven: What should I wear?
Iven: Never mind. Dumb question.
Iven: I should obviously wear something warm.
Iven: Are we going to your house or are you coming to mine?
Iven: Not that we can’t go out. I am perfectly happy being seen in public with you.
That was random. I huffed in amusement, nursing my cup of tea as I waited for him to continue to iron out details for our date all on his own. Not a date. This is not a date, I reminded myself sternly. Iven had made it clear from the beginning that that wasn’t what he wanted from me.
I liked that about him.
How clear he’d been. It was better this way.
Besides, it wasn’t like I was drowning in friends.
Sure, there was the crafting club I’d founded.
Over the years, a variety of the members had attended the ice-carving festival with me.
But…those were companions of a different sort. They didn’t live in town, first of all.
And they weren’t half as pretty as—
Maddox. Stop it.
I huffed out another breath as Iven’s texts continued to roll in.
Iven: Okay, reading that back, it certainly sounds weird.
Iven: I only meant because you said people would make assumptions about us, and I explained to you that was fine. So I was trying to reiterate that. My fineness. About people assuming we’re together. Obviously.
That had to be the longest text he’d ever sent.
Iven: Suffice to say, I would be happy to be seen out with you, with or without others’ assumptions. If people think we’re dating, even better! Yay for us.
Iven: Anyone would be lucky to date you.
Iven: And I totally mean that.
Iven: You’re very attractive.
Oh. I blinked. My cheeks flushed a little, and I set my tea cup down, worried I’d drop it if he said anything else startling. Not that I’d ever dropped a teacup, but today was not the day to start.
Iven: For a man, I mean.
Iven: Even I can tell you’re a rather ripe specimen.
A ripe…specimen? I sniffed myself, frowning. Ripe. Did he mean he thought I smelled? Or did he mean that I was…juicy. Like a ripe fruit.
Iven: Like a ripe fruit.
Well, that answered that.
I didn’t like phone calls. I didn’t make a habit of making them. However, I got the feeling that if I let this continue, Iven was going to talk himself into a panic. So I broke my “no phone” rule and hit the dial button.
It rang only once.
“Please don’t be offended that I called you a ripe fruit,” Iven blurted the moment the line connected. “You know what I meant. I mean. The muscles, Maddox. Men, even straight men, are allowed to look at muscles and want to lick them.”
I wasn’t sure why he was giving me a lesson in heterosexuality, but I didn’t mind. It was nice to hear his voice. It was the reason I’d invited him to dinner in the first place. “You’re attractive too,” I told him, cutting to the root of his worries.
He thought he’d crossed a line, and he needed reassurance. That’s what had inspired the rambling.
Iven was silent for a record-breaking ten seconds. Then he made a sound. Half sigh, half whine. My dick took notice immediately.
“I’ll pick you up,” I said, because if he kept talking, we were going to have a problem. “Seven.”
“Seven is good,” Iven replied, still breathless. “I’ll wear clothes. I mean. Warm. Warm clothes.”
“Good.” There was silence for a moment as neither of us was eager to hang up the phone.
I listened to Iven breathe for a moment, charmed by how panicked but eager he sounded.
I could picture his chest, lean and draped in an olive-toned sweater, quaking with each inhalation.
Could picture his mouth—the chip on his incisor, the way he had a little scar through the bottom lip, silver and barely noticeable.
And then, because I’d already been fantasizing about his mouth, I thought about his nose too.
Long and angular, with a hook that looked delightfully charming.
His mustache, perfectly trimmed and a slightly darker shade than the chestnut hair that topped his head.
His hair itself was meticulously styled.
To give an air of seriousness when his mouth did not, more than likely.
And yet, a few stray locks stuck up here and there, betraying him.
And his eyes—framed by round glasses and lashes—the most arresting shade of blue.
Iven continued to breathe.
Two more minutes passed.
“Are you okay?” a female voice filtered through from his end of the line.
I recognized Penelope immediately, the part-timer who worked there.
She’d spoken the other day, too, as I’d been heading out.
Her family had moved here ten or so years ago, around the time Iven had.
At least, if my memory could be believed.
“F-fiiine,” Iven replied. “Just uh. On the phone with a friend.”
A friend.
“Ooookay. But, you’re not talking, though?” Penelope sounded confused. “You’re kinda just breathing. Awkwardly. Into the receiver.”
“Yes, well.” Iven cleared his throat. “As surprising as it may be, I do, in fact, need to breathe.” He didn’t know what to say. I could recognize that we’d come to this conversation’s natural conclusion.
“Seven,” I said quietly, hoping to hear Iven gasp again. “Be ready.”
“Yes, sir,” Iven replied. He’d obviously been trying to joke, but it fell flat. Maybe it was too close to home. He hung up quickly, and I finished my tea in silence once more.