Page 92 of On Thin Ice

I didn’t let myself sit with that thought for long. Instead, I headed for the grill and turned my focus to the steaks, waiting for the flames to work its magic.

A light wind rattled the bare branches of the oak tree in my backyard, and somewhere in the distance, a neighbor’s wind chimes sang a delicate, disorganized melody. From the house behind mine, came the deep baritone of a mariachi singer, punctuated by the gathered family’s laughter.

When the steaks were nearly done—a perfect medium rare—I heard Bell let out a satisfied sound that floated through the open window and slid down my spine.

I glanced toward the kitchen just as he lifted a spoonful of something to his mouth. He waggled his head like he was weighing whether it was good enough, then reached for the salt mill with a decisive nod.

The timer on my watch buzzed a few seconds later. I pulled the steaks from the grill and laid them on a platter, tenting the top with foil to let the meat rest.

When I stepped back inside, I was immediately greeted by the scent of Bell’s cooking—roasted garlic, honey-thyme butter, something tangy and herbaceous I couldn’t place but knew I’d want seconds of. My mouth instantly watered.

“I feel underdressed for all this,” I said, gesturing toward the patio.

He glanced up from where he was arranging appetizers on a platter, his expression immediately mischievous. “You’re in a Henley with the sleeves pushed up and gray joggers—totally fuckable.” His eyes slowly traveled the length of my frame, making a show of admiring what he saw.

I chuckled and shook my head. “Yeah, not sure that’s what I meant.”

He smirked, the dimple in his left cheek making an appearance. “Well, it’s what I meant. And I’m the one making this feast, so my opinion wins.”

Before I could tell him he was ridiculous, the doorbell rang.

“I got it,” I said, my lips twitching despite myself.

The shit that came out of his mouth sometimes.

Marjorie stood on the front steps in a wool coat the color of burnished copper and a hand-knitted beanie with a rainbow pom-pom that bobbed as she moved. Silver hair peeked out from beneath it, framing cheekbones flushed pink from the cold. She held a bottle of red wine in one hand and a small metal tin in the other.

“Evening,” she said, her voice warm and slightly husky. “Smells delicious.”

“Good timing,” I said, stepping aside to let her in.

She passed me the bottle. “Texas Hill Country Mourvèdre. A woman in my book club gave me a couple of bottles for Christmas.”

“I don’t drink wine all that often and probably couldn’t identify one grape versus another, but the label’s pretty. I’m sure it’s great.”

“I made cookies too.” She lifted the tin to show it off. “Brought extra in case that handsome young man’s sweet tooth is as bad as I suspect.”

“Probably worse,” I said, helping her out of her coat.

He was probably the only pro athlete on earth who considered sugar a major food group.

“Speaking of the devil,” she mused as he stepped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

His face lit up when he spotted Marjorie. . “Well, if it isn’t our favorite neighbor,” he said, striding over to greet her.

I hung back, a shoulder propped against the wall, my fingers wrapped loosely around the bottle’s neck as I watched them interact. Bell was smiling down at her with genuine affection glittering in his eyes, and I felt my own smile forming slowly, almost reluctantly, until it settled there.

I found myself smiling a lot these days, certainly more than I had in years.

“Saying I’m your favorite neighbor isn’t the compliment you think it is when Roger’s a bit of a dick,” Marjorie told him, referring to the man who lived on the other side of me.

“Yes, but Ilikedick,” Bell teased, his sparkling eyes lifting briefly to meet mine before he settled them back on her.

“Thankfully, I do not,” she declared with a lift of her chin. “Though if I were forty years younger, you might’ve convinced me to give it a try. You’re very pretty, you know.”

Bell preened, flashing her a model-worthy smile and flipping his hair back over his shoulder. “Flattery will get you everywhere, darling,” he said, pointing at the tin in her hands. “And speaking of flattery, are those for me?”

Marjorie chuckled, clearly delighted by his theatrics, and handed it over. “Nothing fancy. Don’t tell your nutritionist.”

---