Page 80 of On Thin Ice

Leaning close, he added, “After all, I’m dating a much younger man. I need to be able to keep up my stamina.”

His finger unhooked from around mine, but I just smiled and savored the moment of teasing, quiet intimacy.

Next, we picked up a block of sharp cheddar cheese from Vermont and a bag of onions before looping around to the back of the store, where a cute holiday display had been erected near the dairy section. It had mistletoe hanging over a rack of candy canes and chocolate Santa Clauses. Ethan grabbed a quart of A2 milk out of the fridge and took the long way around the display to avoid getting near it.

I followed along behind him, my lips betraying me with a slow smile over how he’d studiously he’d avoided the mistletoe.

When I caught up to him in the meat aisle, it was to the sound of him humming along to the Christmas music playing over the store’s speakers.

“I didn’t know you were a fan of Brenda Lee,” I observed, fighting a grin.

“I plead the fifth.”

“Uh-huh.”

His mouth twitched at the corner, and I felt it again—that flutter, that stupid warmth that settled in my chest whenever he let me see the softness he kept hidden from everyone else.

“Have you ever had a Christmas tree?” I asked suddenly, the words tumbling out before I even knew what I was saying. The mistletoe display had triggered something, a vision of Ethan sitting on his floor opening presents on Christmas morning. “Here in Austin, I mean.”

He blinked, his movements stilling for a fraction of a second. His brow furrowed slightly, as though I’d asked something far more complicated than a simple question about holiday décor. “Like … a real one?”

“Yeah,” I said, watching his face closely. “Pine needles everywhere, makes-your-house-smell-like-a-forest real.”

He shrugged, but the gesture reminded me of the type of dismissal he employed when we’d first met. He busied himself with adjusting the carton of eggs in the cart to make room for the two ribeyes he’d selected, a classic Ethan stalling tactic I recognized too well.

“Not really,” he said, his voice deliberately even. “What would be the point?”

I stared at him, catching the slight flush at the base of his throat that told me there was more to his dismissal.

“Um, the point is celebrating Christmas.” I kept my voice light, but leaned closer, mindful of the elderly man now browsing jars of pasta sauce a few feet away.

Ethan’s face screwed up in confusion, like he understood that I was speaking words he should recognize but couldn’t parse them together.

A woman with a toddler on her hip passed by, and I noticed how Ethan shifted his stance, angling slightly away from me.

The shift wasn’t as subtle as he probably thought it was. It stung, reminding me that for all his promises, he still wasn’t comfortable even being seen out in public with me. He was still a man divided—one person at home, another in public.

I wanted a future where he wouldn’t have to calculate every movement, every glance between us. Where grocery shopping wouldn’t require strategic planning worthy of a CIA mission.

But for now, I told myself I could trust that we were building toward something stronger.

And maybe, just maybe, I could give him this one thing—permission to enjoy something he clearly wanted.

“Ethan, you love Christmas.” While he’d never said as much, all the evidence was there … if you knew where to look.

And since I’d made a habit of studying everything about this man, I couldn’t miss it.

“No I don’t,” he replied, the words coming too quickly, his knuckles whitening slightly where they gripped the cart handle. His eyes darted to the end cap where boxes of holiday-themed beer were stacked in a vaguely Christmas-tree-shaped triangle, strings of multicolored lights draped across it blinking cheerfully.

“Youdo.” I tugged the cart forward, guiding us toward a less populated aisle. “You hum along to the music without even realizing it, and you bought holiday-scented fire starters when you don’t even use the fireplace.”

“I like the smell,” he argued, though his tone wasn’t as firm as it could be.

He reached for a package of bacon, examining the label with unnecessary concentration.

“Ethan,” I said, my voice softening as I risked brushing my fingers against his wrist, “you got misty-eyed when I made you watchLove Actuallyafter we beat Jersey on Thanksgiving.”

He groaned, quickly dropping the bacon into our cart. “You swore you wouldn’t bring that up.” Despite his protest, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

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