Page 91 of On Thin Ice

He reached for the cabinet above the sink just as I moved to grab a paper towel to wipe everything down. Without breaking stride, we performed an unconscious dance—his hand shifting left, my body leaning right—movements so synchronized it was as if we’d been sharing this kitchen for years instead of months. We moved together on the ice the same way.

He nodded solemnly. “You can’t profit off Pride collections for years and then abandon your LGBTQ commitments the second some billionaire bigot throws a tantrum on Fox News. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”

When he pulled out a ten-pound pork shoulder, I shook my head in confusion. What was he thinking? “You do realize it’s just the two of us, right?”

He paused, sheepishly setting aside an eight-pack of ribeye steaks with beautiful marbling. “Which is why we’re having company.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t invite the team over.”

“Nope.” He grinned, wholly unapologetic. “I ran into Marjorie when I pulled in, and I told her we’d feed her tonight. Figured she earned it after the ornaments she gave us.”

I lifted my head, my eyes seeking out our Christmas tree, bare still except for the two handmade porcelain hockey skates that she’d brought over yesterday, our names written in cursive along the blades. Something warm and unfamiliar settled in my chest. When I turned back to Bell, I caught him watching me, a knowing look in his eyes.

“I was thinking sautéed green beans—” he held up a bag that contained approximately five hundred of of them “—with that honey thyme butter you liked last time I made it. I also got potatoes I could roast, too.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice thick with sudden warmth. “That sounds perfect.”

Bell was good with words of affirmation and praise for the people he cared about, but he also loved taking care of people, taking care ofme. The way he remembered every off-hand comment I’d ever made about liking something or not was one of his love languages.

Without looking up from the steaks he was seasoning, he extended his hand. “Pass me the pepper grinder?”

I was already reaching for it before he finished his sentence, placing it in his palm with practiced ease.

He gave me a pleased smile, then reached for the vat of tzatziki again. “Also, I’m making some kind of appetizer, but I haven’t figured out what yet. I just know it’ll probably involve some peppers.”

“Any excuse to use that new mandolin, right?”

“I live dangerously.”

I leaned a hip against the counter, arms crossed. “You really like her, huh?”

He looked up. “Who, Marjorie?”

I nodded.

Bell smiled again, softer this time. “Yeah. She’s got that badass queer elder energy. Like, she’s seen it all, done it all, and doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks anymore. But she’s still kind. That’s rare.”

“She’s good people,” I agreed.

And maybe that was part of it—why it had been easy to let her in when I’d made an art of keeping others out.

Bell grabbed a cutting board and nudged me with his hip. “Go shower and then light the grill, old man. We’re about to get our steak on.”

“Insulting me while I’m the one responsible feeding you my meat feels like a bold move.”

His head snapped up, eyes widening before a slow, delighted grin spread across his face. “I’m sorry, but was that adick joke?”

I grunted and headed upstairs, feeling a smile tug at my lips as I went. I hadn’t got to fuck him, but this was good, too.

* * *

Twenty minutes later,I stepped out onto the patio, holding the platter of raw steaks.

Bell had already set the table, pulling out the good plates—the ones my sister had given me as a housewarming present when I bought this place seven years ago. He’d even unearthed cloth napkins from somewhere, though I couldn’t remember ever buying any, let alone knowing where they were stored. The glasses weren’t anything fancy—just the basic Pottery Barn set I’d picked up with a gift card I’d won in a white elephant gift exchange a couple of years ago—but he’d upped the elegance factor with unscented candles tucked inside hurricane lanterns to protect the flames from the breeze. The tall patio heater was already lit, casting a soft glow as it warmed the air.

I stood there for a second, just taking it all in. The domesticity of it. The care. Appreciation settled over me at how easily Bell had transformed my house into a home in the short time he’d lived here. How he’d unearthed things I’d forgotten I even owned.

What was I going to do if he ever wanted to leave?

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