Page 13 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

EllaBella: I still think it’s weird you’re going to look at a house with the Grump this morning.

Chloe With A C Not K: Not that I have a clue what your contract entails or what is standard fake-dating procedure, but since nobody will see you—you know, the whole purpose of this arrangement—I agree with Ella.

Emilee: Georgie, ignore them. WHO CARES ABOUT THE WHY? Beckham is freaking HOT, and I’d follow him to the dry cleaner if he asked me to go with him.

I stare at the messages in my Connectivity group chat and sigh. It’s late on Monday morning, and I’m waiting for Beckham to pick me up so we can look at that house he might buy. And needless to say, my twin, her best friend Emilee, and my best friend Chloe all have opinions about it and have taken time out of their workday to express them.

I put my phone down and take another sip of my coffee. I lean against the kitchen countertop and glance down at Winston, who is happily chewing on his Kong toy on the kitchen floor.

“Do you have any thoughts on this, Winnie?” I ask him.

He stops chewing and looks up at me, cocking his head. I swear he’s grinning at me.

“Is that a smile because you think your mommy is getting in over her head? If so, you’re right.”

Winston goes back to gnawing, determined to work that treat out of the toy. I go back to the truth, which neither my twin nor my friends have hit upon yet.

Beckham asked me because he wanted my company.

I said yes because I wanted to spend time with him.

Which is so, so dangerous.

I set down my pink mug adorned with Christmas trees on the countertop and swallow hard. I enjoyed myself far too much when we had shakes last night. Beckham is revealing these different pieces of himself to me, and I like the person he’s showing me.

He’s got a wicked sense of humor. He’s fun. Beckham makes me laugh, and I know I can make him laugh, too.

But it’s so much more than that.

Beckham listens to what I say. I know because he’s made observations on things I’ve said and asked about them. It struck me that he doesn’t have to spend extra time with me or care to listen, let alone to ask questions, for our arrangement.

But he does. More so than any man I’ve dated in the past.

He’s also been vulnerable, sharing things about himself that he hasn’t told anyone else. That means so much to me. That I’m the person he’s chosen to reveal the not-so-nice parts of himself to—for some reason, he’s decided to trust me with them.

While Beckham wears this grumpy exterior on the outside, on the inside, I’m finding a completely different man.

That is so hot.

Not to mention the fact that he’s a bad boy who, so far, is showing me he has a really good side, too?

HOT. HOT. HOT. HOT.

Hot squared to pi or whatever math formula you want to use.

And I’m in trouble.

The Swiftie soundtrack returns to “I Knew You Were Trouble” in my head, and I furrow my brow, trying to force a different mental song selection. “Christmas Tree Farm” is a good choice.

The lyrics to “I Knew You Were Trouble” stay put.

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

I’m in so much trouble. Not because I’ve shared my own vulnerabilities with Beckham. Not because I laughed so hard on our date last night, I actually sucked some of my milkshake up my nose.

I’m in trouble because right now, I’ve got a million butterflies as I think of Beckham coming to pick me up. I’m excited to see a house he might buy, and I’m thrilled that he wants my opinion on such a big decision.

And he asked if he can spend Thanksgiving with me.

So he can get to know me better.

I know this is for realism on his end as far as our arrangement goes, but why did I feel like it could be more than that?

I close my eyes and shake my head, as if that can force all of these thoughts from it.

What’s happened to me? A week ago, I was fine. Okay, so I had the whole sagging business hanging over me, but I wasn’t standing around my kitchen getting giddy over the prospect of spending time with a man.

“Blank Space” suddenly plays on the mental soundtrack.

And I don’t even need a second to write Beckham Bailey in that spot.

Buzz!

I glance down at my phone, expecting more comments in the group chat, but instead I see it’s a text from Beckham:

Parking the car. Will be checking in with your concierge in a minute. Must come up and see how Christmas has been thrown up all over your apartment.

An electric feeling sweeps over me. I turn around and call the front desk, telling them they can let Beckham up to my floor. I glance in the microwave door, checking my appearance in the glass one last time. It’s warm out this morning, seventy-seven degrees. So I’ve put on a pair of straight-legged jeans and sneakers. I have my oversized black sunglasses parked on top of my head, and my hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail today. My big leather tote is ready to go, complete with a notebook and pen so I can take notes about the home and give Beckham my complete thoughts.

Of course, the crowning jewel of my outfit today is my T-shirt. Because it’s not an ordinary T-shirt.

It’s a pink T-shirt that has “MERRY” embroidered across it.

I grin. I can’t help it, it’s so much fun to push Beckham’s buttons. I take one final sip of my coffee and look around my decked-out kitchen and living room.

If this doesn’t push Beckham’s buttons, nothing will.

Suddenly there’s a rap against the door. Winston barks and makes his way over to it, and I feel more butterflies in my stomach than I ever have in my life. “Coming,” I call out.

“Waiting!” Beckham calls back.

I get goose bumps as soon as I hear his deep voice.

Pull it together, Georgie , I will myself.

Before I open the door, I tell Winston to sit and be quiet. He quickly obeys because, well, he’s the world’s most perfect dog.

And he’s had loads of behavior classes.

Let’s just say it took him more than one time to pass, but once he did, he’s been a model of good behavior ever since.

I unlock the door and pull it open, ready to greet Beckham and let him inside.

As soon as I do, I feel as if the wind had been knocked from me.

Oh my. There’s no pulling myself together now.

Beckham has come from practice, and he’s wearing a gray “Manatees Hockey” T-shirt that stretches across his muscled chest. His inked arms are visible, and today he’s put on a pair of black athletic shorts. His footwear? Flip-flops.

But what has completely upended me and caused my pulse to skyrocket?

He’s wearing a backward Manatees baseball hat.

I can’t explain it. It’s stupid. It’s a hat .

There’s just something endearing and attractive about Beckham in a hat.

When my gaze meets his, he’s practically smirking back at me. My cheeks and neck quickly grow hot.

“Merry. Of course,” he says, the corners of his mouth tipping up in amusement.

I use the moment to reset my mind and forget how attractive I find him right now.

“I am merry,” I say cheerfully, smiling at him. “Are you ready?”

“Ready?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

“Ready for my Christmas-infused apartment?” I tease, ushering him inside.

Beckham steps past me, and this time, I get the scent of his cologne mingling with the scent of soap. Like he just stepped from a shower.

Which, to be fair, he probably did.

“Winston!” he says excitedly.

The butterflies dance at his eager response to meeting my dog.

I grin. “Yes, that’s him.”

Winston is looking up at Beckham with his goofy smile on his face, his tail swishing excitedly back and forth across the floor.

“Can I pet him?” Beckham asks.

“Of course.”

I watch as he extends his hand for Winston to sniff. Then he bends down and ruffles him, and Winston responds eagerly. Beckham smiles. “He looks like he’s grinning.”

“I know! Isn’t it the cutest?”

He spends another minute petting Winston and talking to him, and my heart has completely melted on the spot. He might own a cat, but it’s obvious Beckham is an animal lover, like me.

He rises, and Winston trots back to the kitchen, where he plops down and chews on his Kong again. Beckham stands in place, looking around the living room, dining area, and kitchen. I watch his expression, and there’s a mixture of disbelief and amusement on his gorgeous face.

“It looks like Santa threw up in here.”

“It does not.”

“It’s very … pink,” he says slowly.

“That’s the point. Pinkmas, Beckham!”

He groans and rubs a hand over his stubbled jawline. “Pinkmas. Christ, you were actually serious about it.”

“Of course I was.”

He turns around and studies the kitchen, and to my surprise, he strolls into it, which gives me a second to admire his wide back and muscular butt and thighs that were built by hockey.

God, he has a nice body.

“Really?” he asks, picking up a pink Santa mug from my hot chocolate bar. “You have a pink Santa mug? Santa did not wear pink.”

I feel a smug smile playing at my own lips. “Well, he’s not real either, so what’s your point, Grumpy?”

His eyes meet mine. And he begins to laugh. “Fair point, Cupcake.”

“Thank you.”

“You did all of this yourself?” Beckham asks, gesturing to all the seasonal decor that is in the kitchen.

I nod. “Yes. I like making crafts and decorating, so this is all me.”

“You’re talented.”

I blink. I wasn’t expecting that compliment.

“Why do you look surprised?”

Now I feel heat climbing up my neck and growing up toward my cheeks again. “It’s just kitchen decor.”

“You know what? I’m going to make it a mission to make you understand how talented you are.”

Talented.

He moves back into the living room and stands in front of the Candy Land Christmas tree. “This is amazing. Not just anybody can put together a tree like this, Georgie. It takes someone with artistic skill. You have that.”

I swallow. I used to believe in my talent until I couldn’t hit the sales numbers I needed for my jars this year. Then I began to question everything. Maybe I wasn’t talented. And in my darkest moments, I wondered if the lack of sales validated that thought.

But nobody knows that. Not even Ella.

“Thank you.”

“Nope, that’s not good enough. I’m going to make you see it,” Beckham declares.

I’m touched by his words. Ones I never expected to hear from a hockey player with a bad reputation.

Beckham clears his throat. “As much as I hate to leave the land of Pepto Bismol Christmas—”

“ What? It is not!” I cry, laughing.

“You’re even laughing as you protest.”

I immediately try to stop. He quirks a brow.

And I instantly dissolve into a fit of laughter.

“Come on, Cupcake. We’ve got a house to look at.”

I nod. I retrieve my purse, say goodbye to Winston, and then we’re out the door and headed to the elevator.

“Let’s say you do want this house and get it,” I say as Beckham punches the down button. “You still have thirty days to close on it. Are you going to live in the hotel for another month?”

“Shit no,” he says as the doors chime open. He lets me step inside the empty elevator first and follows behind me. “The hotel is driving me crazy. If I get this house, I’ll move out of the hotel and into the house I’ve rented for Sofia and Aaron. They’ll be able to go back to Atlanta because I’ll be on my way to being settled.”

“Do you feel settled?” I ask.

The doors chime open on the lobby level, and we step out. Beckham reaches up and pushes down on his baseball hat, adjusting it.

“Yeah, I think so. I’m committed to getting control of my life off the ice, and that should help me elevate my game to the next level on the ice. I’m getting used to Miami. And I know where to go if I want to order a shake that will give me an instant case of diabetes, so it’s all good.”

I playfully smack him on the arm, and he laughs. Beckham opens the door for me to go outside, and I walk through it, greeted by a breeze and warm sunshine.

“You still haven’t told me what your tattoos are,” I remind him.

He grins. “Nope.”

“You have to tell me for our origin story!” I protest as we head over to his Bronco.

“Because people are going to ask you to explain my tattoos?” he asks as he opens the passenger door for me.

I frown as I climb up into the seat. I can’t argue that point.

“Why are you being so mysterious about them?” I ask.

Beckham has his hand on the top of the door, leaning down close to me. “I think the real question is, why are you so desperate to know what they mean?” he asks, his voice low. “Do you spend a lot of time pondering my ink, Cupcake?”

I flush hot with embarrassment. He quirks a brow before rising and shutting the door.

Die. I want to die. Now Beckham probably thinks I lie awake at night thinking about his tattoos.

Which I totally do not.

I only think about them when I see him, and so far, that seems to be quite a bit.

Beckham opens the door to the driver’s side and climbs in next to me.

“I don’t think about your tattoos all the time,” I say.

He grins. “So … just some of the time.”

“No!”

“I’m flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be. I’m only curious, and I only think about them when they’re right in front of my face. Besides, if I really wanted to know, I would have googled them.”

He turns on the engine and pulls around the drive to enter the street, remaining silent.

“You’re really not going to tell me?” I ask.

“Nope. And for the record? A Google search will turn up no answers. I don’t tell anyone.”

Fascinating.

I stare at the arm closest to me, trying to work out the details etched in gray ink on his skin. It’s some kind of flower. It starts from his wrist and winds around his forearm. It moves up over his huge bicep muscle and disappears under the sleeve of his T-shirt. “I don’t know what flower that is.”

He turns on his stereo and rap music fills the car. “No? That’s too bad,” he teases.

“Beckham!” I moan. “This is going to drive me crazy!”

He grins.

“You have a maniacal grin on your face!” I accuse.

This makes him roar with laughter. “Perfect. I learned well from your weird nutcrackers.”

I pretend to give him a side-eye, but he just smiles.

“Fine. If you won’t tell me about your ink, will you tell me about the scar on your right cheek?”

“A hockey stick got up under my visor in high school. It was a nasty cut that required stitches. Use that for your origin story, because you aren’t getting the tattoo meaning, Cupcake.”

I blush and he gets another maniacal grin on his face.

“We’ll meet Kinzie at her office,” Beckham says, switching the subject. “She’ll take us to see the house. Sofia found her through the team. Apparently, she’s the real estate agent to the sports stars in Miami.”

Hmm. Beckham has closed down the conversation about his tattoo, but I’m onto something with that flower. I wonder why he keeps it such a secret.

And if he’ll ever tell me what his tattoos mean.

I blink, alarmed by where my thoughts are going. This is a business arrangement, even if I’m having fun with it right now. I don’t need to know this to be his fake girlfriend. I shouldn’t care.

But I do. Which is worrying.

What will happen to me when this all comes to an end in January?

* * *

These houses are jaw-dropping.

I stare out the window from the back seat of Kinzie’s Mercedes. She’s driving us through the secured, posh Miami Beach neighborhood, where the house she thinks is “perfect” for Beckham is located.

It’s one modern mansion after another, many located right on the water with expensive boats docked out back. It’s a world of white and glass and manicured gardens and palm trees.

“I talked to Antoni Nowak,” Kinzie says breezily. “I sold him his home here on your right. If you have any questions about the neighborhood, he’d be happy to talk to you.”

And holy shit, the home on the right is a sprawling contemporary mansion.

My thoughts shift to Antoni . He’s worshipped here in Miami. Like whenever he goes out, he’s mobbed for selfies. I think on this for a moment. I haven’t experienced that with Beckham. Perhaps it’s because he’s new, or perhaps it’s because Miami is all about the Copperheads basketball team right now.

“I appreciate that,” Beckham says casually. “I’d like to get Nowak’s thoughts on the neighborhood.”

I smile at his laid-back reaction. Of course, to Beckham, Antoni Nowak is just another athlete.

Or potential new neighbor.

“This is it,” Kinzie says, pulling up to a gate and lowering her window.

I stare up at the large, square-shaped, gleaming white contemporary home with lots of windows. It’s not nearly as big as Antoni’s, but it’s still a mansion. Huge palm trees frame it from all sides, and as the gates swing open, I can see it’s well landscaped with lush tropical plants and trees. There’s boxwood shrubbery that’s clipped to perfection, and a water sculpture/fountain near the path that leads to the front door. The look is both modern and tranquil.

Kinzie parks the car, and we all get out. The Realtor leads us up the path, rattling off all kinds of details.

“I think you’ll see why Sofia was so excited about this property,” she says eagerly. “It has large living spaces, and it’s very open and airy. A gorgeous swimming pool and guesthouse. This home is just over fifty-one hundred square feet and has six bedrooms and six-and-a-half baths.”

“Good. I always like a higher bathroom-to-bedroom ratio,” Beckham says dryly.

Kinzie smiles brightly at him, not picking up on the fact that he is completely joking. “It’s perfect for when you have guests.”

I share a look with Beckham that tells him I know he’s kidding, and his eyes shine back at me in amusement.

Then he winks at me.

Electricity jolts through me the second I see that wink. I feel excited and happy. I know I’m in over my head, but I ignore the warning flags and decide to live in the moment and bask in his attention.

We walk up toward the front door, and there’s a floor-to-ceiling window next to it. I look inside where I can see a magnificent floating staircase and large living area.

Kinzie enters the code into the lock on the door, and then she opens it. I step inside, loving the fact that the floors are a very pale, light wood and not marble. I look up, and wow , the ceiling soars high above us.

“The ceiling in the foyer is twenty feet,” Kinzie says, as if she read my mind.

To my right is a staircase, and to my left is a large living area, with more floor-to-ceiling windows to let in natural light. The home is artfully arranged with modern, contemporary furniture in a neutral palette.

“I love the floors,” I say to him. “The wood warms the space up.”

“It’s European wood,” Kinzie adds. “It’s just stunning.”

Beckham wanders into the living room and looks around. There’s a beautiful fireplace against one wall, and the lush foliage from outside is nestled up against the windows, which I like.

“Kinzie, would you mind if Georgie and I walk around first before doing an official tour?” Beckham asks.

“Of course. I’ll be available if you have any questions.”

She moves down the hallway, toward the back of the house, her Louboutin heels clicking against the hardwood. When Kinzie is out of sight, Beckham turns to me. “I want you to tell me what you really think about this place as we walk through it. Don’t hold back.”

“Of course I will. But Beckham, it doesn’t matter what I think. I mean, I know you told me you wanted my opinion, but you’re the one who’s going to have to live here.”

He stares down at me. “I told you when I was in Denver, I rented a condo downtown. That’s because I didn’t want the commitment of a house. But now? I want to show Miami I’m committed to them. They probably don’t care where I live as long as I produce on the ice. I could have let Sofia put an offer for this home sight unseen. In the past, I would have done that. Let someone else handle it. But not anymore.”

I stand still as I watch him. Beckham pauses for a moment, then he continues.

“I need to be responsible for this,” he says quietly. “I need to prove to myself I’m ready to grow the hell up and own a home. And yes, I have Sofia’s opinion on this place, but she’s my sister. I need someone else’s opinion. Someone who will shoot straight with me and tell me what I need to hear. I want your opinion because … well, I … I trust you, Georgie.”

My heart beats wildly inside my chest. I see nothing but sincerity shining in his deep brown eyes.

I trust you, too, I think.

“Okay,” I say simply. “I’ll tell you what I think. And I’ll start by saying there is a shocking lack of pink so far, but that can be rectified with paint.”

Beckham laughs loudly. “I knew I was right to bring you.”

I can’t contain the smile on my face. As we begin to walk through the house, one thought echoes through my head.

This could be his new home and part of his new start in Miami.

And maybe I could be a part of that, too.