Page 11 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

I feel breathless as I stare up at him.

Beckham wants more from me.

I swallow nervously. I don’t know how much he wants to know, and it scares me to be so open and vulnerable with a man I might never see again after New Year’s Day. Especially Beckham, who is not interested in relationships or seriousness.

Yet when I gaze up into those doe eyes of his, I see something different shining back at them. They aren’t playful or mischievous.

They’re earnest.

Serious.

About me.

Or is it to help create a story that we can sell? That has to be what it is.

Beckham gets the assignment.

Perhaps it will be easier to be vulnerable when there’s nothing at stake, I think . I can share with Beckham and then I can walk away from this in a little more than a month with no emotional entanglements to deal with.

Maybe this will be good for me, too.

“I can do that,” I say finally.

“You hesitated. Why?” Beckham asks, stepping aside so some people can enter the café while we stand outside of it.

I exhale. “Sharing can be scary. I haven’t had to do it in a long time.”

“How come?” he asks softly.

“Nobody has wanted to know,” I confess, my voice nearly a whisper.

A look of surprise passes over his face. “You’re telling the truth.”

I don’t say anything.

“What kind of douchebags have you been going out with?” he asks bluntly.

I howl with laughter. “Beckham!”

Suddenly he looks embarrassed. He rubs his hand over his face and grimaces. “Sorry for the language. You can tell I’m shit at this.”

“No, I don’t mind the language, but I can’t believe you think that.”

“I know because I was like that. It’s kind of embarrassing to think I was the kind of dou—erm, guy who did the same thing. I was like that. But I can’t fathom anyone doing it to you, Georgie.”

My heart zeroes in on one word.

Was.

I was like that.

Suddenly my heart ping-pongs around my chest. Could I be the reason for the word “was”?

GEORGIE. STOP IT.

I blink, trying to get my head back on track. And I need to do my best to put my head in charge of my heart and not allow it to think such stupid thoughts.

Beckham is still watching my face, and then he quickly clears his throat. “Come on, let’s go inside and get something nauseatingly festive to drink,” he says, pulling open the door for me.

“They will have pumpkin, white-chocolate cranberry, or a pecan pie shake if you don’t care to go all in on Christmas just yet,” I tell him as I step inside.

“I’m alarmed you have the seasonal flavors on automatic recall,” he quips, following behind me.

“Don’t talk, Beckham, I’m having a moment,” I tease.

“A moment?”

I gaze up at him, smiling. “Yes. Take it in. Feel how cold it is. You can smell the ice cream in the air, that wonderful scent of sugar and vanilla and cream. And look!” I say excitedly, pointing overhead to the ceiling. “It’s decorated for Christmas!”

And it is. The shake café has multicolored lights strung all across the ceiling, along with tinsel, and decorations hang down from shining red and silver ribbons.

I look at Beckham, expecting to find him looking overhead at the decor, but instead I find he’s staring at me. “This really is a moment for you, isn’t it?” he asks, mystified.

“It’s magic. It’s in a shake shop, but it’s still magic. I know that’s a phrase that will make you want to throw up, but I feel it.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t want to throw up. Your eyes lit up as soon as you started talking about it, Georgie. It’s coming from your heart.”

I feel my lips part in shock. His words are sincere.

And they’re beautiful.

He clears his throat. “Of course, I should have known you’d find magic—they had the good sense to string up multicolored lights,” he says, shifting his gaze to the ceiling, his mouth curving up in a teasing smile.

Now Beckham has put us back on regular footing, and for my own safety, I grab on to it. “Come on, let’s decide what to get,” I say, walking toward the counter. “This bit is hard for me, because all their shakes are good.”

“Georgie. You can’t like all of them,” he insists, dodging the tables scattered about the café.

“No, I really do,” I insist, smiling at him.

We reach the front counter, and Beckham glances down at the ice cream flavors under the glass display case. “Man, I haven’t seen some of these since I was a kid,” he exclaims.

I watch him, and his rich brown eyes have lit up with memories.

“Like what?” I ask, moving closer to him to see what he’s looking at. Suddenly I’m aware of a new scent. It’s not sugar or cream, or coffee brewing, or vanilla.

It’s Beckham’s cologne.

His spicy , sensual cologne.

I smell citrus first, but then I can detect spice. I can’t identify it, but it’s unique and incredibly alluring. The combination is both warm and sophisticated.

Did I say sexy? God, he smells amazing.

“I used to always get bubble gum,” he says.

“Your cologne can’t be bubble gum!” I blurt out.

Then I gasp in horror at what I said, and I can’t stop my hand from flying over my mouth to cover it.

Now I have his full attention, and a smirk plays across his full lips. “Cupcake, I thought you wanted to know my ice cream choices, not what cologne I’m wearing. But that means you’ve noticed it,” he says, grinning mischievously at me.

I feel my face and neck grow hot. Very, very hot.

“But since you’re interested,” he continues, that sexy smirk still on his mouth, “it’s Acqua di Parma Zafferano. The woman who sold it to me said it has saffron and mandarin notes.”

Saffron. That’s it. That’s what makes his scent unique.

“Do you like it?” he asks, his eyes dancing at me.

If I could run through the back door of the shake café and lock myself in the freezer to get away from this embarrassment, I would. After all, I’m wearing my nutcracker sweater. I could tough out the cold temperature for a bit.

But I can’t run away from him, so I decide to tell the truth. “Yes, I do.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm what?”

“You know my cologne, but I don’t know your perfume. You obviously don’t baste in it, which I appreciate. But I think it’s fair that I get to know what you smell like. For our origin story, of course.”

OH MY GOD WHERE IS HE GOING WITH THIS?

“Do you wear it on your wrist?” he asks, his voice dropping to a low, sensual rumble.

I gulp. “Yes.”

“Do you have some on now?”

GAH!

“Yes,” I say, my voice coming out in a croaking sound.

“Cupcake, I’m not going to eat you. Just sniff you. May I?”

I don’t know why, but I nod.

Beckham takes my hand in his, and the second he does, I feel sparks flying everywhere. He carefully lifts my wrist to his nose and sniffs my skin. Then he lowers my hand, his fingers releasing mine, and smiles at me in triumph. “I knew it would be sweet. It smells like vanilla. And cookies.”

“It’s toffee.”

“Really?”

I nod. “It’s a boutique blend. I love that it has a sweet, milky, toffee-like scent.”

“It’s nice,” Beckham says simply.

Nice.

Not sexy, but nice.

Why does that answer disappoint me?

It shouldn’t, my brain reminds me. Beckham isn’t looking at you in that way, and you’d do your heart a favor to remember that.

He abruptly shifts his gaze back to the ice cream. “Before you were distracted by my cologne, I was telling you I used to eat bubble-gum ice cream. Now that makes me sick to think about.”

“I loved cookie dough as a kid.”

“They have a Jack Daniels and Coke ice cream,” Beckham says. “That speaks to me.”

“Nope, you aren’t having that on my watch,” I tease. “That gets dangerously close to club-like activity.”

“You are the first woman besides Sofia to tell me no.”

“I’m glad. I think it’s good for you.”

“I think it’s good for me, too,” he says quietly.

My eyes fly to his. He’s staring down at me with a serious look.

I quickly shift my eyes back to the menu board as my brain directs me to do. “I have to go with the sugar cookie shake,” I say, switching the subject.

“Christ, Georgie, how much sugar is in that?” he asks in a shocked voice. “Sugar cookie ice cream, topped with whipped cream, holiday sprinkles, and a freshly baked sugar cookie?”

“We’re celebrating your win,” I come up with on the fly.

I feel him giving me a side-eye. “I think your sugar bomb of a shake is more dangerous than a Jack and Coke at a South Beach club.”

Hmm. He might be right. But I won’t concede that.

“What are you going to get?” I ask. “I’ll be very disappointed if you go with something like plain chocolate.”

“Do I strike you as a plain anything kind of guy?”

“How would I know? I’m just getting to know you,” I say cheerfully.

“You are, aren’t you?” he asks softly.

My heart flutters inside my chest again, with my head apparently not able to control this response at all.

“I am,” I say, and I don’t even bother to tag it with an origin story disclaimer.

Beckham nods. “Well, I’m not that boring. It will definitely be more than chocolate.” His gaze shifts back to the board, and mine does, too, studying all the “Winter Seasonal” options. Then I see one that’s perfect for him. “I think you need The Grinch,” I declare.

Beckham searches the board, and his eyes stop on the description. “The Grinch. Mint chocolate ice cream, marshmallow cream, green sprinkles, whipped cream, and Andes mint candy sprinkles.”

“It would suit you, Grumpy,” I tease.

He snorts at that.

“If that’s not it, what are you choosing?” I ask. “Eggnog?”

Now Beckham makes a face like he’s going to vomit. “Who likes eggnog? For real?”

“It’s good with cookies.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course you like it. It’s in your Pinkmas rule book, right?”

I grin at that. “No, but it’s festive.”

“I think I’m going with the gingerbread butterscotch,” Beckham says, folding his arms across his chest.

I read the description. Gingerbread ice cream, whipped cream, butterscotch drizzle, and a gingerbread cookie on top. “I think you’ve made an excellent choice.”

“If I get sick, you’re driving me home,” he teases.

We make our way down the counter. I manage to resist all the festive cupcakes and iced sugar cookies under cloches, and we place our order. I get out my wallet to pay, and Beckham looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “I asked you out.”

“Well, I know, but I don’t expect you to pay for everything all the time.” I put down my card, and I can’t get over the stunned expression on his face.

“I don’t know what to say.” Beckham stares down at me, looking confused now.

I smile up at him. “Thank you works just fine.”

“Thank you, Georgie,” he says softly.

Something in his voice makes goose bumps ripple across my skin.

A server will bring us our shakes, so we find a booth against one wall and slide into it. Beckham puts his arm up across the back, and I wonder what it would be like to sit next to him and feel that arm graze across the top of my shoulders.

“You know my rule for being here,” he says. “I get to ask you questions.”

“I’m ready,” I say confidently.

He quirks a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Go on. I’ll even answer one before the shakes arrive.”

“Why on earth are you still available, Georgie Goodwin? Because no matter how hard I look at it, I can’t figure out why.”