Page 19 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

I stare at Beckham, stunned by his words.

I think I’d rather soft launch. With you. Tonight.

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, my pulse pounding in my ears. My heart is hoping it’s one thing, but my head can’t help but wonder if it’s another and I’m only hearing things in the context I want to hear them. So I decide to be a grown up and ask him directly. “What do you want from me, Beckham?”

He blinks. There’s a look of panic that has filtered across his face, and my stomach instantly sinks.

“Never mind,” he says quickly. “Forget I said anything.”

We’ve gone from “I didn’t know any of it mattered until I met you” to “never mind.”

Now my heart sinks along with my stomach.

But as soon as I feel that sensation, hurt and anger begin to build within me. I don’t know how to interpret his actions or words. I’m getting whiplash trying to figure them out.

“You know what? I don’t have to do this,” I blurt out. “In fact, I won’t.”

Beckham’s head jerks back in shock. “What?”

I’m equally shocked, as I’ve never spoken like this in my life. I’m good at keeping things hidden when it comes to being upset. I hate conflict, it gives me anxiety. I just stuff it down and put it away.

Yet a voice inside is urging me to tell Beckham what I think, no matter what the consequences might be. And I follow it.

“This. You say one thing, you do another. I thought—just now—that you might like me. Want to take a chance on me, on maybe dating for real. But when I asked you what you wanted, you took it back. If that’s what you want, fine. But this”—I gesture with my hand in a back-and-forth motion—“this can’t continue. I will fake date you. But that is all. I refuse to play this game with you because I deserve better. Have Sofia text me where to be on Thanksgiving and I will see you there.”

Then, to my own surprise, I get out of the car, slam the door shut, and begin walking down the sidewalk.

“Georgie!”

I wince the second I hear Beckham yell after me, but I keep walking as fast as I can in these stupid heels. And let’s be real. The man is a professional athlete. I can’t outrun him, even if I were wearing a pair of adidas. Soon I hear his footsteps, and then his hand lands on my arm, turning me around.

“Georgie! You have this all wrong,” he says urgently, his eyes searching mine.

“I don’t see how.”

Beckham puts both his hands on my arms now, holding me in place. “I do want to date you,” he says, his eyes flashing. “I do. For real. But when you asked me what I wanted, I realized I was asking you to date me in my car, in the early hours of the morning on a Thursday, outside of a freaking pizza place filled with drunk bar-hoppers. I—I wanted to do better. Because you’re right, you do deserve better. I wanted to ask you in a better place, at a better time, and put some damn thought into it. So I blurted out the first thing I could think of.”

I feel my mouth fall open in shock.

“There are no more mixed signals, Georgie. I’ve been fighting a pull to you since the moment you walked into that dinner with a gift tag around your neck. I’m mystified by the way you braid your hair without a mirror. I’m amazed at the art you can do. I’m appalled at the amount of Christmas in your apartment, and outside of hockey, you’re all I think about. I love the way you see me. You make me laugh. You push me. And when I think about another guy dating you, I about lose my mind. Because I want to date you. The man you date should be me. Not fake. But for real. Tell me you want that, Georgie. Tell me.”

My heart is pounding as I take in his words. Beckham is staring down at me with a look in his eyes that leaves me unable to breathe for a moment.

Because his eyes are pleading with me to understand. He’s been honest and vulnerable, and all he wanted was to do things in a way he thought I deserved.

To treat me differently. To make me feel special.

Because I matter.

“I do want to be with you,” I say quickly. “I want that so badly, Beckham.”

The second the last word escapes my lips, Beckham’s mouth crashes down on mine. His lips are firm and demanding, wanting access to explore me.

Which I grant him.

A groan escapes his lips the moment I open for him, and my pulse skyrockets in response. Now his hands are in my hair, his tongue is warring with mine, and I’ve never felt so alive from a kiss in my entire life.

Because the chemistry between us is complete fire .

I live for every moment of this. I love the way his sensual citrus and spice scent is wrapping around me. I relish the friction his facial stubble is creating against my skin as his mouth burns against mine. I feel the delicious way his hands are threading through my hair.

And I’m acutely aware of the way his tongue is hot and seeking and telling me exactly how much he wants this kiss. There’s no mistaking his purpose.

To claim me as his.

I move my hands to the nape of his neck, holding on to him. I kiss him back in the same desperate, passionate way, not caring that we’re getting whistles and smart comments from the crowd moving around us on the sidewalk. I’m tasting him. Learning him. Delving deep inside his mouth and letting him know I’m claiming him as mine, too.

Finally, he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine and sliding his arms around my back, holding me in his arms as we both catch our breaths.

Beckham lifts his head, and I stare up at him, dazed at what just happened. I swear my lips are swollen. Did I just kiss him like this on the sidewalk in South Beach?

Yes. I did.

AND I HAVE NO REGRETS.

“Georgie?” he finally asks.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t plan to have that as our first kiss. But I’m not mad at it.”

We both start laughing.

“I’m not mad at it, either,” I say, moving my hands to his chest. I’m amazed at how hard his muscles feels underneath my fingertips. I’ve seen pictures of him on Connectivity without his shirt on, so I know he has an incredible body from playing hockey.

I swallow hard. Now this body is mine to touch. Explore. Get to know.

As soon as I think it, both desire and amazement surge through me in equal measure.

Then I become aware of something else. I can feel his heartbeat.

His heart is pounding rapidly against my palm, and the quickened pace matches the same one I had when we kissed.

And the second I feel it, I know that kiss meant just as much to him as it did to me.

“But in true Becks fashion,” he says, interrupting my thoughts as his hands find my waist, “I completely cocked this up. That tracks.”

“Cocked?” I ask, wrinkling my nose in confusion.

“Sorry. ‘Cocked this up’ is a British phrase for messed up. Learned it from a British teammate in Denver. But I’m going to do this the right way now.” Beckham reaches up and gently brushes a lock of my hair away from my face, and the sweetness of the gesture has me melting inside. “Georgie. I would like to date you. For real. No more of this fake bullshit.”

I flash him a mischievous smile. “We never even got to the fake bullshit.”

“Oh. Fair point.”

We both grin at that.

“Georgie?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you know my past and how I was with women,” he says, his voice low. “But I have never wanted to exclusively date any of them. I didn’t know it at the time, but I saved that for you. You’re the only woman I want to be exclusive with.”

Pure elation. That’s the best way to describe my feelings right now.

“I only want to date you, too,” I say softly.

Beckham drops another kiss on my lips. “Good. Because the idea of you going out with any other guy was going to kill me. I had to check Wyatt, you know.”

I feel my cheeks burn hot. “ Wyatt Wentworth?”

“Yep. He saw your Friendsgiving pic on your Story Share when we were on the plane coming home. Asked who you were. I told him you were off limits.”

I can’t help but beam at that.

“And you have every right to look smug, Cupcake. I couldn’t stand the mere idea of Wyatt going after you.”

“I’m not being smug.”

“Oh, but you are.”

“Beckham! I am not. I’m just happy you didn’t want anyone else going out with me.”

“No. I don’t.”

Suddenly I become aware of people moving around us on the sidewalk, and Beckham looks around, too. “Do you still want pizza?” he asks, rubbing his hand up and down my back. “Oh, and this is NOT our first date, by the way. I’m going to plan something for that. I refuse to let you say that this was.”

I reach up and run my fingers through his hair, still amazed that I’m touching him. Feeling his silky locks slide through my fingertips. I can reach over and run my fingers through those espresso-colored locks and it’s a real sign of affection.

Not a fake, planned one.

I’m so happy, I think I might cry.

But I do my best not to, focusing on our conversation instead. “Oh no, no, no, this is so our first date, and I refuse to let you rewrite history.”

He scowls, and my heart flips at how adorable he looks.

“Now come on, Grumpy. Let’s go get some pizza, and then we can hang out at my place. Ella is staying at Jordan’s tonight.”

“Are we sure about that? I’d hate to walk in on another sexual food fantasy. Like, what if they’re doing something with fondue?”

I giggle as we begin to walk hand-in-hand in the direction of the pizza place. “First, you’re talking about my sister . Ew. And fondue? Where on earth did fondue come from?”

Beckham grins. “I have no idea. Maybe because it melts?”

I cringe.

“Spreadable?” he suggests, quirking a brow.

“Would you stop? I do not want to think about Ella and sex and spreadable fondue.”

Beckham throws his head back and laughs. “Sorry.” Then he grows serious. “You know, as soon as Sofia and Aaron are gone, and I’m moved into their place until I can close on my house, you’ll need to come over and meet Minnie Pinny.”

“Minnie Pinny? Is that your nickname for her?”

Beckham’s mouth curves up in a sheepish smile, and he rakes a hand through his dark hair. “Yeah. I call her Minnie Pinny. I don’t know why, I always have. But you need to meet her.”

That is so cute, I can hardly stand it. “Well, I’m looking forward to meeting Miss Minnie Pinny. Hopefully I’ll get the Minnie seal of approval.”

“You know, she’s a tough judge of character. But I think she’ll like you as much as I do.”

Swoon!

“I have a question. Why are you in a hotel? Surely you could have moved into the house Sofia and Aaron are in with the girls.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know how long they’d be here, and I didn’t want to intrude on their family time. They already gave up enough to help me get settled.”

“I doubt they’d see it that way. They adore you.”

“Well, they still need their space to be a family. I respect that.”

“You’re very perceptive.”

“People usually only give me credit for that on the ice,” Beckham says as we reach the pizza place. He stops at the door and opens it for me.

“Maybe because you let very few people see the non-hockey side of you,” I say.

“Touché.”

I step inside the restaurant, and Beckham follows behind me. I’m hit with the scent of freshly-baked pizza—the trifecta of golden crust, tomato sauce, and gooey melted cheese. Ceiling fans whirl overhead. Framed restaurant reviews are hung on the brick walls. From the open kitchen, I can see pizzas being slid into ovens and people tossing dough overhead to get it to that perfect crust consistency.

Bliss.

“Oh, now we’re talking,” Beckham says, looping an arm around my waist and drawing my back into his chest. “This is a legit pizza place.”

I forget about pizza as he leans down and plants a kiss on my temple. I glance down at the inked arm that is holding me close.

This is happening. I’m with Beckham.

We’re dating . For real.

And Beckham is making it clear right here in the pizza place that we’re together.

Suddenly I hear the words from Taylor Swift’s “So High School” rolling through my head, and happiness surges through me.

This is the beginning.

And I have a good feeling about where we are going to go.