Page 21 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

I relinquish Beckham’s hand as we walk up to Home Joy and make a beeline for the shopping carts. “We’re definitely going to need one of these. If the sales are bountiful, I might need another one.”

I hear Beckham’s laughter and turn around and look at him over my shoulder. The furrow I have in place immediately gives way when my eyes fall upon him. I know I spent hours making out with him underneath the Christmas tree, and he’s already picked me up this morning for this excursion to claim a life-sized nutcracker, but when I see him like this, my heart does a little version of hopscotch inside my chest, as if I haven’t seen him at all.

He’s so beautiful , I think as I drink him in. Inside and out.

First, he wanted to come with me to Home Joy. Beckham didn’t mind getting up early so he could go with me before he has to go to practice, and he picked me up with enough time to get some coffee and make it to the store right as they opened. He’s wearing a backward baseball hat—a black Miami Copperheads one—and a white T-shirt that hugs him snugly across his muscular chest. Beckham’s inked arms are in view, and he’s wearing a pair of athletic pants with the drawstring untied.

THE DRAWSTRING IS UNTIED. I don’t know what it is, but that is so freaking hot.

And this gorgeous hockey player is waiting for me, coffee in hand, ready to spend time with me in one of my happy places.

Sa-woon.

“Bountiful?” Beckham repeats, pausing to take a sip of his coffee. “Cupcake, you’re not like anybody I’ve ever met.”

“Because I used the word bountiful in a sentence?” I ask, pulling a cart out and turning it around, facing him once again.

“Yes. When’s the last time you’ve heard anyone use that word in a sentence?”

I wrinkle my nose as I consider it. “Hmm. I haven’t.”

“I rest my case.”

“But more people should use it. Bountiful is an excellent word.”

Beckham smiles down at me, and I see the corners of his eyes have crinkled up.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re adorable. That’s all.”

I think I’m going to float through the entrance to Home Joy.

We reach the doors to the store and they automatically open. As soon as we step inside, I stop pushing the cart. It feels like the entire store has amped up the Christmas theme—after all, Christmas displays have been out since July, it’s the American way, it seems—but now? It’s over-the-top bursting with holiday goodness. A sparkling array of pastel Christmas trees are right at the entrance, twinkling with lights and crammed with glittery ornaments. A table next to it is overflowing with pastel-themed Christmas decor, with items ranging from glass trees to gingerbread houses and a magical nutcracker under a cloche on a pink cake pedestal.

And a few feet behind the table, next to a display of Christmas-themed kitchenware?

The lone life-sized nutcracker.

I spring into action, abandoning the cart and heading over to the display as Mariah Carey belts out, “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

“Georgie?”

I ignore Beckham as I spy another woman heading toward the nutcracker from the other side of the aisle. I know this is a big find, and I bet she wants it, too.

I do what I need to do. I kick in the afterburners and run. I reach the nutcracker before she does, and without even examining him to make sure he’s perfect, I grab him, hugging him to me as if he were Beckham and I was hugging him goodbye at the door last night.

The woman stops dead in her tracks. Her mouth turns down in a frown, and a flicker of annoyance lights in her eyes. “I was going to get that,” she snaps, putting her hands on her hips.

I open my mouth. I got to the nutcracker a full five feet before she did, am I supposed to be sorry about that?

Yet I’m about to utter those very words when I hear Beckham’s voice from behind.

“Well, she was going to get it, too, and she happened to get there first. I don’t think you’d be so mad at it if you had reached the nutcracker first.”

I turn around, and Beckham has moved behind me, folding his inked arms across his chest, as if daring the woman to argue with him.

She shoots daggers at him. “Running for a nutcracker is ridiculous.”

“I won’t argue that, but don’t be mad at her for getting to it first. That’s just stupid.”

Then Beckham casually takes a swig of his coffee, as if he could go round and round with her all morning if that’s what this woman wanted to do.

“You two are assholes!” she spits.

“Assholes, maybe, but we’re assholes with a life-sized maniacal nutcracker and that’s what you’re really irritated about,” Beckham says cheerfully.

She gives us both a death stare before spinning on her heel and walking off.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Beckham begins to laugh. “Man, I had no idea Home Joy was as ripe for a turnup as a hockey rink. And over a maniacal nutcracker. Who knew?”

I’m about to respond but he continues. “Here, hold my coffee and I’ll carry this back to the cart for you,” he says, extending his cup to me.

I don’t move for a moment. “You’re brilliant,” I say in awe. “You had a comeback for everything! I was actually going to tell her I was sorry.”

Beckham’s eyes widen. “Georgie. Why would you say you’re sorry?”

“I don’t know. I felt like I should apologize when she got mad.”

“Oh hell no. You didn’t cheat her out of anything. You didn’t do anything wrong to get this nutcracker. You beat her to it, and it’s rightfully yours if you want it. That would be like me winning a puck and then turning around to the opposing player and apologizing for it. There’s no apology needed here. None.”

“I know,” I admit, feeling embarrassed and meek at the same time. “I’ve just found it easier to say I was sorry. Just to make the other person feel better or to make the awkward situation end. I’ve been doing that for as long as I can remember.”

Beckham puts his index finger under my chin, gently tilting my face up toward him. “I think you do it because you don’t like conflict. My guess is it’s because of how you grew up. You were raised in a house where all you knew was conflict and you just wanted it to end. But sweetheart, there’s always going to be conflict in life. You can’t avoid it, hide it, or run from it. But those moments don’t last forever. And as hard as it is to stand up for yourself, there’s something very rewarding about working through that uncomfortable feeling and not backing down. It will end. And when you find yourself on the other side of it? You’re going to not only know you did the right thing, but you’re also going to feel way better than if you keep apologizing for things that aren’t your fault.”

I lose my breath as I gaze through the fringes of his long, dark lashes to those deep eyes of his, the ones shining sincerely back at me.

This man sees me. He sees down to my very soul in a way even my own twin never has.

And even though he’s found the imperfect part of me, he doesn’t care.

GAH, I think I want to cry.

“Georgie?” Beckham asks softly, his brow now creased in concern.

“You’re going to make me cry in Home Joy,” I say, my voice wobbling.

Now he looks panicked. “Shit, what did I say?”

I set the nutcracker to the side and frame his face with my hands, catching him by surprise. “You said everything I needed to hear, Beckham. You somehow see the real me, and you make me feel seen in a way nobody has before. Thank you for that.”

Beckham’s eyes look like liquid to me now, growing soft from my words.

Or are they blurry through my tears? Hmm.

“I shouldn’t be able to see you like this,” he says softly, staring down at me. “We’re just getting to know each other.”

“I know.”

“But I also know,” he continues, “that everything is different with you. I knew it from the moment you walked into the hotel restaurant. Then the more we talked, the more I could feel things about you. Like I was meant to understand you. And you were meant to understand me. Because you see me in a way nobody outside of my family ever has.”

I nod. “I know.”

Neither of us say anything for a moment, and Mariah continues to sing in the space around us.

“So it’s a good thing we’re dating,” Beckham declares, a teasing smile playing at his mouth.

“I agree.”

He dips his head and brushes a sweet kiss on my lips. Then Beckham rises and grins at me. “Now hold my coffee, and I’ll take this creepy thing to the cart,” he says, inclining his head toward the nutcracker.

I grin as I take the coffee from his hand. “He’s not creepy. He’s fantastic.”

Beckham snorts. “You have a weird definition of fantastic.”

“Yes, Grumpy, I do, and my definition of fantastic is a life-sized pink nutcracker. He’s so fantastic, I might have to use him in my display next Saturday.”

“Are you trying to scare off customers?” he asks as he picks up the nutcracker and shifts it under his arm.

“Shut up,” I say.

Beckham puts the nutcracker into the empty cart, and I put his coffee in the cup holder.

“Would you mind pushing the cart?” I ask. “It’s hard for me to see around the nutcracker.”

Beckham puts his hands on the handle and then stops.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m in someplace called Home Joy. I’m pushing a cart with a life-sized nutcracker in it. This whole store looks like someone vomited Christmas in it and it’s nine o’clock in the morning the day after a game. What is happening to my life?”

“I bet a few months ago you couldn’t fathom this being your life,” I say as Beckham begins to push the cart.

He bursts out laughing. “Oh Christ, no.”

I giggle at that.

“But Georgie?”

I look over at him.

“I’m not mad at it,” he says softly. “In fact, I’m glad for it.”

Joy. I feel so much joy in my body right now, I can barely contain myself.

“I’m glad for it, too. Now buckle up, buttercup. You’re about to be initiated into the magic of Home Joy.”

I walk ahead of him, and I hear the deep rumble of his laugh behind me.

I can’t contain the smile that has spread across my face, knowing I’ve made him laugh like that. I made him want to come to Home Joy simply to spend time with me.

It’s not the life he had back in Denver. Not even close.

But my heart tells me this is where he’s supposed to be.

And that’s with me.

* * *

“Georgie, are you trying to run him off? You took him to Home Joy?” Ella says, staring at me incredulously from her seat on the sofa, where she’s eating a big bowl of salad for lunch. Ella lives close enough to the office that she can come home for lunch, and she takes advantage of it frequently. “Did he understand what that meant when he said yes?”

“Ella. What do you even mean by that?” I ask, giving her an evil eye.

She snorts. “You know exactly what I mean. You spend hours in that store. Examining things. Talking yourself out of things. Driving things around in your cart before making the decision if you want them or not. Was he prepared for all of that? That’s a lot to ask of a boyfriend, let alone your fake one.”

I grin. Ella has no idea of our change in status because our paths haven’t crossed since yesterday. She’s watching me put up my new purchases in the living room. Well, actually Beckham’s purchases, as he insisted on treating me and said whatever was in my cart was on him today. I refused a million times, we argued about it, and finally I gave up and accepted them as he wanted me to.

“Beckham not only handled it, but he let me wander for as long as I wanted,” I say, flopping down next to her.

“I was wrong about him,” Ella says.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I thought he was merely a hockey player. But he’s a saint.”

“You’re wrong about one other thing,” I say.

She stares at me quizzically. “What?”

“He’s not my fake boyfriend.”

She screws up her nose. “What?”

“We’ve decided to date,” I say, pulling a sparkling silver cake stand out of a bag and setting it on the coffee table. “For real.”

“Wait, what?” she asks, parking her mixing bowl of salad next to my cake stand.

I begin unwrapping the cloche that goes with it. “I think this will look good with some small jars and LED candles on my display table. What do you think?”

“I don’t care about your cloche, and I think you better tell me everything right now!” Ella demands.

I put the glass cloche on the cake stand and flop down next to her. Winston jumps on the sofa and settles happily between us, so he can get double pets.

Winston has always been a smart dog.

“Beckham and I are dating for real,” I say excitedly. “Everything changed last night.”

“How could you not tell me?”

“You weren’t home!”

“You could have texted me!”

“I wanted to tell you in person!” I counter.

“Whatever. How did everything change so fast for you and Becks?”

I stroke Winston between the ears. “Beckham admitted he pretty much liked me from the first night we met,” I say, feeling my cheeks grow warm with happiness. “I could sense things changing on my end, and I thought they were on his, too. But I wasn’t sure, you know? Because we had this whole fake-dating arrangement, and I would find myself second-guessing everything until he told me how he felt last night.”

“I knew you liked him,” Ella says, a triumphant smile on her lips. “You talked about him way too much.”

“I never thought I would like a guy like him. And I don’t think I would have liked the Beckham he was back in Denver. He wasn’t serious about anything, thinking he could get by on his hockey prowess alone. I think the trade shocked him into growing up, both on and off the ice. And I like the man he is now.”

“That’s all that matters,” Ella says. “Date him and see where it goes.”

“That’s what I intend to do. As well as not accept the money for fake dating him, obviously.”

She makes a face. “Oh crap, I didn’t think about that, Georgie.”

I smile at her. “It’s okay. I’d rather have Beckham than the money. Obviously I won’t take it now.”

“But what about Georgie’s Jars?” Ella asks, concern flickering in her eyes.

“I’ll always have Georgie’s Jars, but I’ll just make it a side hustle instead of a full-time job right now. Speaking of that, I’ll have to find a job. At least I have enough money to make it through the holidays.”

“Nobody is hiring now anyway, except for seasonal help. And this is your big month to make money.”

“Hopefully, yes.”

“No, you will, Georgie. You’re so talented.”

I don’t say anything as I continue to pet Winston. If only talent were enough to make a living. Sadly, I know it’s so much more than that. It can be a lot of luck, too, and sometimes you never get that.

“We’ll hope for a holiday shopping miracle,” I say.

Ella eyes me shrewdly. “You don’t seem panicked about it.”

“Ella, I know this is going to sound weird, but I already feel like I won the lottery by meeting Beckham. I know I’ll be stressed until I find a job, but I know I can get something and keep working on my art. Is it ideal? No. But if it’s what I have to do, I’ll do it.”

She lifts her hand and places it across my forehead. “Are you ill? Because you don’t sound like the Georgie who was freaked out two weeks ago about not being able to fund Georgie’s Jars.”

I push her hand away. “I’m still anxious, but I see things with a bit more clarity.”

“Through the Beckham lens,” she teases.

I feel my face turning red.

“Somebody has it bad,” Ella declares.

“I do. I’ve never felt this way before,” I confess.

Winston turns his head and gives me a grin. “You know Mommy has it bad, too, don’t you?” I ask.

He barks.

“Winston knows all,” Ella declares.

“Tonight I’m going to his hotel for dinner again. That’s so I can meet his cat, Minnie.”

“Ooh, that’s a big deal, meeting a man’s cat,” she jokes.

“It is. If she doesn’t like me, it could all be over.” Then I smile at her. “But you know what’s a bigger deal? He wants to come to both of our family Thanksgiving meals next week.”

“Ooh, really?”

“Yes. I’ve told him about Mom and Rick and Dad and Tasha. He’s undeterred.”

“Becks has it bad, too,” Ella says, a triumphant smile on her face.

I blush again, and she retrieves her mixing bowl. “So we’ll all be together on Thursday,” she says, spearing a forkful of salad. “Brunch with Dad at ten-thirty, then dinner at Mom’s at three. I hate the double meal.”

“I raise you. I follow that with dessert with Sofia and Aaron at eight.” I groan. “I’m going to need to wear expandable pants.”

“You can’t raise me. Jordan and I have to go to his parents at night. I’m wearing a maxi dress,” Ella declares. “Because I’m going to have a Thanksgiving food baby on board!”

We both laugh.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table. I reach over and grab it, and I smile when I see it’s a text from Beckham:

Change in plans if you agree. Can you be ready around four-ish? We got invited to go over to Antoni Nowak’s house for predinner appetizers/drinks so we can get the dirt on my new neighborhood. Interested in going with me?

I stare down at his message in shock.

“What?” Ella asks.

“I’ve been invited to have appetizers and drinks at Antoni Nowak’s house.”

Her mouth swings open. “What?”

“Yes!” I cry, incredulous. “I’m going with Beckham to NBA megastar Antoni Nowak’s house. For appetizers.”

“How is this your life, Georgie?” Ella asks, eyes wide.

A million things rifle through my head. This is a whole new world I’m entering. Is Antoni even nice? And what about his girlfriend? Will she be nice? What am I going to wear? Do I need to dress up? Bring a hostess gift? GAH, what do I gift a multimillionaire?

And how do I fit into this ultra-elite world of sports celebrities?

I begin braiding my hair as I worry. Apparently, I’ll find the answers to these questions.

Tonight.