Page 12 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

I stare at Beckham, taken aback by his question. Not because he can’t believe I’m available, but because I thought the answer would be obvious to him.

“Why am I available?” I repeat.

“Yeah. How is that?”

“Doesn’t maniacal nutcrackers sum it up?” I ask. “Look at me. I’m wearing a Pinkmas sweater with nutcrackers on it. I’m obsessed with Christmas. I paint jars for a living—well, that’s a lie, I’m not making a living, I’m merely painting jars. I’m not exactly the girl a guy looks at and goes, ‘Hey now.’”

Beckham grins and cocks an eyebrow at me. “Hey now,” he says in a low, sexy voice.

We both laugh.

Then he clears his throat. “The Christmas stuff could be a dealbreaker for a lot of guys, I suppose, if they’re complete jackwagons.”

“What is a jackwagon, anyway?” I ask, growing thoughtful. “I know people use it as a term for a loser, but what does it really mean?”

Beckham furrows his brow. “I have no freaking idea.”

We’re both cracking up again.

“So we’re using words we don’t understand,” I say. “We need to look this up. I’ll consult Google.”

“I’m afraid of what I’m going to hear,” Beckham says.

I type in “jackwagon” and a definition comes up for me. “Interesting. A jackwagon is a loser.”

“I’m so glad you cleared that up,” Beckham quips.

“Oh, stop it, you didn’t know either!”

I go on to read the origin of the term—which deals with wagons back in the nineteenth century—and then put my phone down. “There. Now we’re both educated.”

“Or jackwagons for looking it up,” Beckham teases. Then his eyes laser in on mine. “Back to my question. If you’re interested in dating, I don’t know why you’re available. You’re gorgeous. You’re sweet. Kind. Funny. You’re a good listener. So how is a woman like you not dating?”

My heart begins to race from all the wonderful words he’s used to describe me. I’m touched that it’s more than my looks. I grow all warm inside from the things he sees in me in such a short period of time.

I stare back at him. Beckham has been vulnerable with me. Now it’s time for me to open up and be a bit vulnerable for him, too.

“I’m not the kind of girl guys want to date,” I say simply.

The crease is back in Beckham’s brow. “What? Why would you say that?”

I smile at him. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. It’s the truth. I’ve never been the type to just date, I’ve always craved a relationship. I love the idea of love, and let’s face it, that scares a lot of guys my age. I like serious conversations. My ideal date night isn’t going out to some chic restaurant and hitting a club. This time of year? My perfect date is sitting in front of a lit Christmas tree getting cozy on the sofa. I met a guy at a party in college once and he told me, ‘You’re not the kind of girl I date. You’re the kind I marry. And I’m not interested in that right now.’ I think he was right. That’s what guys see in me.”

“Jackwagon,” Beckham declares.

I snicker at that. “While I appreciate your defense of me, I’m not the type of woman you’d pick up either, am I right?”

He’s saved from answering this question by the appearance of the server at our table with two huge shakes. “The gingerbread butterscotch?” she asks.

Beckham’s eyes widen as he takes a look at the enormous shake she has in her hand. “Holy sh—I mean, that’s me, thank you.”

She smiles and places the shake in front of him. “And one sugar cookie,” she says, setting my drink in front of me.

“Thank you,” I say.

As soon as she steps away, I take a moment to study my shake. The scent of ice cream and sugar wafts up toward me. It’s piled high with whipped cream and Christmas-colored sprinkles. There’s a sugar cookie perched on top and it’s sheer indulgence.

“This is insane,” Beckham says, peering down at his shake. Marshmallow cream is dripping down the sides of the glass, topped by butterscotch sauce and a mound of whipped cream, and finished off with a gingerbread man hanging off the side.

“Right? But that’s what makes it fun.”

“Or makes you sick.”

“Grumpy,” I say, plucking my cookie off the top.

“Aren’t you going to take a picture first? Before you eat it?” Beckham asks.

“No. I’m living in the moment. But I reserve full rights to take a picture of you eating your shake as the start of you celebrating the Christmas season.”

He scowls. I laugh.

I break the cookie in half and hold it out to him. “Want some? The sugar cookies here are so good.”

Beckham’s scowl is replaced by a soft smile, and my stomach tips upside down.

“Sweet,” he says.

Hmm. Sweet as in “awesome” or “sugar?”

Or me?

“I was referring to you,” he says, popping a piece of sugar cookie into his mouth.

I feel my cheeks grow warm. I eat my piece of cookie as a distraction.

“You’re right, you know,” Beckham says after he’s finished chewing.

I poke my spoon into my glass. “About what?”

“You’re not the kind of girl I would have hit on at a Waleston college party,” he says. “And I definitely wouldn’t have hit on you in Denver. You’re serious. I was not into that. I ran from that. I wanted the exact opposite of you.”

I stop what I’m doing and stare at him.

“But I’ve come to a conclusion about my previous life,” he says. Then a mischievous grin lights up his face. “I was a freaking jackwagon.”

I can’t help but beam at him.

And somehow hope that it’s me helping make this change in Beckham.

I feel brave, and if he can admit these things, I can share some more of myself with him, too.

“I think I want serious because it gives me a sense of stability,” I say, pausing to lift the spoon to my lips and take a bite of the thick ice-cream concoction. “Oh!” I mumble. “This is sugar cookie goodness in a glass!”

Beckham grins at that. “Apt description.”

“After you’ve had some of yours, you have to try mine,” I insist.

He opts for the straw and drinks some of his shake. I resist laughing as he makes a face of disgust. “That,” he declares, pushing it away, “has enough sugar to bake a thousand cookies!”

“You do not know what you are missing.”

“Diabetes?”

I stick my tongue out at him, and he laughs.

“You were talking about stability,” he says.

“And you say I’m a good listener,” I tease.

“I am a good listener. At least when you speak.”

Ooh! I feel my cheeks and neck grow a bit warm, and from the way his mouth has suddenly turned up in a satisfied smile, I know he can see it.

I decide to fixate on my words and hope I’m not as red as the sprinkles on my whipped cream.

“My parents had a horrible marriage,” I say slowly, pausing to dip my spoon back into my shake and taking another bite. “They argued all the time. At home. In front of me and Ella. In public. It was always about money. Mom never wanted to spend it—she wanted to have funds at hand at all times. Dad was all about spending it and wanted us to have experiences, not regrets. He would always threaten to leave, and I lived in fear of that happening all the time. And then one day he did.”

“I’m so sorry, Georgie,” Beckham says gently. “You never should have had to grow up with that fear lingering over your head.”

“Thank you.”

“How was it after he left? If you don’t mind me asking, that is. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he assures me.

“Hard,” I say. “I missed him. I mean, Ella and I got to see him on weekends and summers and holidays, but it wasn’t the same as seeing him every day. Then Mom was stressed about the split and getting the money she needed to pay for a lawyer to fight for what was rightfully hers, and it was a very bitter, angry divorce. It wasn’t good for anyone.”

“Now I see it,” Beckham says softly. “You want the stability you never had as a child. You don’t want to be involved with anyone if there’s a chance it can all be taken away. That’s why you don’t like casual. You want something deeper as reassurance.”

“Yes. It’s stupid, really,” I say quickly. “Because all relationships can end, serious or not.”

“It’s not stupid, Georgie. There’s nothing wrong with preferring a serious relationship over dating or hooking up. None of those are wrong answers. It’s a matter of picking what’s right for you, for where you are in your life. We both did that based on what we needed. Or thought we needed.”

My pulse quickens as his last sentence rolls through my brain.

Or thought we needed.

Is Beckham’s idea of what he needs changing? I know he’s doing things to clean up his image, but could he be re-evaluating how he wants to move forward after our arrangement is over?

And am I the reason why?

I quickly take another bite of my shake. I can’t let my heart think this.

Because that involves another thought. Do I want him to?

“I have another question,” Beckham says.

I’m relieved to have the distraction. “Go on.”

“Explain to me this jar business. I know you paint and sell them—Sofia showed me the ones she bought—but how did this become a thing for you?”

Okay. This is a much safer question and I’m grateful for it.

“I’ve always been a crafter,” I say. “From the time I was little, my favorite part of school was when we got to do arts and crafts. I have always found joy in sitting down to do something creative, you know? Probably the same joy you feel when you take to the ice to play hockey.”

He nods. I continue. “I always knew I was going to major in art, but I wasn’t clear about my career path until I stumbled onto painted Mason jars. I thought they were cool, and then I began formulating ways I could do them and make them different. Through trial and error, I figured out a creative way to paint them that gave them a rustic farmhouse look. I didn’t see anything like it on the market, so I developed a plan to work hard, save all my money, and allow myself to launch my business for a year.”

I stop talking, as this next part is hard to admit and I’m feeling vulnerable all over again.

“My year is nearly up, and I haven’t made anything close to a livable wage,” I admit. “I was planning to start looking for a job after I wrapped up my last Christmas show in December.”

A look of recognition lights in Beckham’s eyes. “Then you met Sofia.”

I nod. “Yes. Dating you will allow me to keep going.”

“How will you use the money?”

“I want to rent a dedicated studio space where I can go and do my art. Right now, I work out of my mom’s house, which isn’t ideal for multiple reasons.”

“No, I imagine not.”

“So a professional space is one thing. Then I’d have some money to take some courses on how to run some targeted ads on Connectivity and pay for them, that kind of thing. Better shows, too. As well as paying for rent and bills.”

“This arrangement really helps you, doesn’t it?”

“I won’t lie. It’s like divine intervention.”

“I can say the same. You’re going to put a lot of minds at ease within the Manatees organization. Remember, we’re hard launching at Thanksgiving. Are you ready for it?”

I smile at him. “Now you’re dropping Swiftie songs.”

“What?”

“‘… Ready For It?’”

Another scowl passes over his face, but I know it’s a playful one. I suspect Beckham isn’t nearly as grumpy as he wants people to think he is.

“If you send me a Swiftie playlist, Cupcake, I’m not listening to it.”

Ooh, I so know what I’m doing when I get home tonight, I think wickedly.

“Mm-hmm,” I say. Now that I’ve demolished the whipped cream off my shake, I put the spoon aside and use the straw instead.

“Coming back to the question,” Beckham says, “are you ready for our hard launch?”

“I think so. Sofia said she would send me all the details this week.”

“When are you sending me mine?”

I blink. “What? What details do you need? I’m coming over for dessert with your family.”

Beckham leans forward, resting his hands on the tabletop. “Well, if we’re going to make this look real, shouldn’t I be seen attending your family dinner, too? You’re coming over for pie, according to my sister. I guess that means I should have dinner with you.”

“You … you want to do that?” I ask, my heart racing.

“What a better way to get to know someone than watching how they interact with family?” he says, grinning.

My heart goes from excited to horrified. “That is a terrible idea! My family is weird. My mother alone will exhaust you!”

“Then I definitely need to be there as your backup.”

“I’m a child of divorce. That means two Thanksgiving meals.”

“Excellent. I’ll wear sweats so I have an elastic waist. And I’ll tell Sofia we’ll be over for pie very late.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I say quickly.

“Oh, I know I don’t. But I want to.”

“Why?”

“For you,” he says softly. “I want to do it for you.”