Page 4 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

I follow behind the hostess, who leaves a trail of heavy perfume in her wake. For a split second, I forget about being ready to meet Beckham because I’m about to start choking on perfume vapors. My eyes begin to water, and a tickle begins to build in my throat. I will myself to repress it. GAH, it’s one of those heavy, powerful, suffocating perfumes. I blink rapidly and try not to breathe in the thick, musky scent, but that is becoming an impossible task.

My stomach churns as she continues to lead me through the restaurant. Good God, where are they sitting? At the chef’s table in the kitchen at the back of the restaurant? I’m going to pass out if I have to smell this much longer!

The hostess turns and approaches a room with two large carved wooden doors. She turns around, and I quickly plaster a smile on my face to replace the expression of I’m about to throw up that I know I’m wearing.

“Your party is seated in one of our private rooms this evening,” she says, pushing open one of the doors.

I nod, trying to hold my breath. If I can do that, maybe I can ignore how the sick feeling is building in my stomach.

I step inside the room, feeling greener by the second. The hostess steps aside, and as I move past her, I’m suffocated by her scent. Bile rises in my throat, and I nearly gag, but what stops me is what I see in front of me.

Not the beautiful room, or the trees wrapped in twinkling lights, or the doors that lead to a terrace with a view of the ocean.

It’s Beckham.

He rises from his plush seat, his eyes locked on mine. TV, Google, Connectivity, Sofia’s photo—they all failed me. My quick surfing before I left tonight told me I would be dealing with a good-looking man.

But I was not prepared for this.

Beckham Bailey is a freaking GOD.

If I didn’t think I’d throw up, I’m sure my jaw would be swinging open. His chocolate-brown hair is pushed back away from his face, the waves held back by a bit of product. He’s wearing a pale blue dress shirt—which surprises me—and the sleeves are turned up, revealing inked skin that goes all the way down to his wrists. Beckham’s shirt is tucked into a pair of black trousers, and I notice he’s wearing a black belt with a Louis Vuitton buckle. On his right wrist is a huge platinum watch; on his left wrist are black leather and silver bracelets.

I allow my gaze to travel back to his face. The scruff I’ve seen in some pictures is gone, leaving him clean shaven. I see full lips. A scar across his right cheek. Then my gaze meets his.

A jolt hits me the second our eyes meet. His eyes are a rich, deep, brown, fringed by long lashes, and they are beautiful.

Those doe-like eyes look innocent, but I know Beckham is anything but.

Now there’s a Taylor mash-up spinning through my head, from snippets of “Mastermind” to “Shake it Off” to “Blank Space.”

The sick feeling in my stomach reaches a crescendo now.

I AM SO NOT READY FOR THIS.

“I’m going to be sick!” I blurt out, my hand flying to my mouth.

“ What? ” Sofia gasps, leaping up from her chair.

I feel Beckham staring at me, but I keep my attention fixed on the floor, trying to quell the nausea and panic that are spreading like wildfire in my body. I feel clammy. I still smell the perfume of the hostess in the air, and now I’m in a complete panic about Beckham being too damn good-looking.

WHAT IF I HAVE TO KISS HIM?

Sofia puts her hands on my shoulders and guides me to a seat. I take it, trying to decide if I should bolt for the restroom or work to get this under control at the table.

She pushes a glass of water in front of me, and Beckham goes to the terrace door and opens it, and an ocean breeze filters through the room. I feel some relief from the fresh air—the toxic cloud that has enveloped me seems to dissipate a bit—and I feel brave enough to remove my hand from my mouth. I take a breath of air, and then I reach for the glass of water and take a sip. I glance up at Beckham, who is watching me with a smirk playing on those full lips of his.

GAH. He looks good even when he’s smirking.

“Are you okay?” Sofia asks, patting my back.

I put the glass down and breathe in the salty air. My stomach unwinds and I nod.

“Wow. That was impressive. It’s the first time I’ve met a woman and she wanted to vomit at the sight of me,” Beckham says, returning to the table.

Oh my God.

“No, no, that wasn’t it!” I protest, my neck burning bright red. “It was the perfume!”

He furrows his brow. “The perfume?”

“My perfume?” Sofia asks. “My perfume made you ill?”

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

“No, no, it was the hostess. She had this heavy, very musky scent, and it was making me sick,” I declare.

“So that wasn’t you?” Beckham asks, slipping into his seat across from me.

“Me?” I ask.

One corner of his mouth quirks up. His eyes still look sweet and innocent, but that quirk indicates trouble. “I thought you were wearing that perfume when you walked in,” he says, zeroing in on my face.

I screw up my nose. “No!”

Now the other side of his mouth tips up in a knowing smile. “Thank God. I could never fake date a woman who smelled like she was wearing something my grandma would wear.”

No, I bet you wouldn’t, I think.

“Let’s reset,” Sofia says. “Georgie … Oh, how weird, I just realized I don’t even know your last name.”

“Wait, you didn’t google her before setting this up?” Beckham asks, incredulous.

I cringe. This meeting couldn’t get off to a worse or more awkward start.

“Beckham. I didn’t need to. I told you she looked like an Elsa/Anna combo who does crafts. The wholesome factor is off the charts,” Sofia says. “And she loves Christmas!”

“Perfect. She could be a stalker fan, for all you know.”

“I assure you I’m not a stalker,” I say. “I don’t know anything about hockey, and I didn’t even know your name until Sofia told me.”

His gaze shifts back to me, but this time, it’s hard and assessing, as if he’s weighing out whether I’m telling him the truth or not.

“I have never done anything like this in my life,” I continue. “The idea of fake dating anyone is like something out of a romance novel on BookTok.”

Now a full smirk appears on his lips. “If you’re on BookTok, you should know who I am.”

“What? Why?” I ask.

“I should just duct tape your mouth shut until Georgie agrees to do this. You are about to ruin everything with your ego!” Sofia snaps.

I turn to her, seeking clarification. She sighs. “He’s cast as a book boyfriend for hockey romances all the time,” she explains, as if this is normal.

A wicked grin passes over Beckham’s face. “They like to talk about all the things they want to do to me. Or more like have me do to them.”

“Oh my God, would you please behave?” Sofia groans.

“That doesn’t bother you?” I ask Beckham curiously.

He shrugs. “I don’t mind being someone’s erotic fantasy.”

I AM NOT READY, NOT READY, NOT READY, I CAN NEVER BE READY FOR HIM.

“Don’t worry, if they knew the real you, you would no longer have millions of videos dedicated to you on BookTok,” Sofia says.

Beckham chuckles at that. Ooh. It’s a throaty sound and rather sexy.

NO NOT SEXY. This is business. There’s no room for sexy in business.

“Ignore him. What is your last name?” Sofia asks.

“Goodwin. Georgie Goodwin.”

“Georgie, meet Beckham Bailey,” she says, acting as if we hadn’t had this entirely weird conversation at all.

He lifts a brow. “Ms. Goodwin.”

“Mr. Bailey,” I counter, smiling sweetly at him.

His brows knit together. “Why are you smiling?”

Beckham’s response takes me aback. “Why wouldn’t I? We’re starting a business meeting, and I’m pleased to meet you.”

“No. You started our business meeting by telling me you wanted to throw up.”

“See? I told you he can be a grump!” Sofia interjects.

Beckham’s head snaps toward her. “How is that being a grump? I merely stated a fact.”

“You get grumpy all the time,” Sofia counters. “You’ve been a grump about finding a house here in Miami. You’re a grump because your shitty decisions have put you in this situation where you have to work to project a new image. And don’t get me started about how you’re worse than the freaking Grinch about Christmas.”

“How can you be a grinch about Christmas?” I ask. “It’s the most magical time of the year!”

“Yes. The most magical time of year for commercialization,” he declares, screwing up his face.

“No, no, it’s more than that,” I insist, my Christmas-loving heart rising to the challenge to make Beckham understand this. “It’s about warmth and coziness and love. The magic of Christmas lights and sprinkles on iced cookies. It’s the caress of the wafting scent of sugar in the air and the way the tree looks when you lie underneath it and look up at the branches. It’s hearing Mariah Carey defrosted for the start of the season. It’s beautiful!”

Beckham stares at me without saying anything for what seems like an eternity. Finally, he speaks, a bewildered expression passing over his face. “Who are you?” he whispers, as if I’m a lunatic and he needs to speak carefully before I become completely unhinged.

“I told you!” Sofia says, clapping her hands in triumph. “She’s like a Christmas cupcake!”

Cupcake?

“Right,” Beckham says. He shifts his attention back to me. “I take it the gold is your foil wrapper, right, Cupcake?”

I blush. He’s referring to my dress.

Also, I should be offended he’s calling me Cupcake. But I’m not.

TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE.

Before I can respond, Sofia lobs her crumpled linen napkin across the table, hitting Beckham in the face.

“Hey!” he snaps. “What was that for?”

“Would you shut up? You’re going to run her out of here, and we haven’t even talked about anything!”

The door opens, and we all stop as the server enters the room.

“Good evening,” she says, smiling at us. “I’m Dara, and I’ll be your server this evening. What can I get you to drink tonight? Perhaps one of our seasonal cocktails? The sugar-cookie martini is my personal favorite.”

I feel Beckham’s attention shift to me before he looks back at the server. “Does the cocktail have sprinkles ?” he asks mischievously. “I hear that’s important this time of year.”

Then he winks at me.

WINKS.

Is that flirty? Mocking? Both?

I stare at him, my brain trying to work him out. But I can’t. At least not yet.

“The sugar-cookie martini does have sprinkles,” Dara confirms with a smile. “Would you like one?”

Beckham shakes his head. “No, thank you. I’ll have an iced tea, please.”

So the party boy is not drinking tonight. Maybe he is serious about this proposition after all.

“I’ll have the same,” Sofia says.

“Very well,” Dara says. She looks at me. “And for you, ma’am?”

“I’d like a Diet Coke with a slice of lemon, please,” I say.

She smiles and clears the wine list and cocktail menu off the table, saying she’ll be right back with our drinks.

As soon as the door is shut, Beckham lobs a napkin back at Sofia, smacking her in the nose. “You might need that during dinner,” he points out.

“And you might need Georgie to restore your reputation, but you’ve probably pissed that opportunity away already,” she retorts. “I’m half-surprised she hasn’t walked out of here. Because I’m about to, Beckham. I’m about to let you sort this mess out yourself. And good luck with that, because you, my dear baby brother, are showing you’re incapable of it.”

Beckham’s expression completely changes. I wait to see a flash of anger across his handsome face, or some smart retort roll past those full lips of his.

But it doesn’t.

Gone is the smirk. And there’s something different in those large, brown eyes of his.

Worry.

I’m so shocked when I see it, I have to check twice. I do not know this man. I know the checkers at the local Target better than I know Beckham Bailey. But my gut leans in hard to this instinct, and somehow, I know I’m right.

He’s scared, I think with shock. This man who can skate on knives for a living, playing a hard-hitting sport on an ice surface, is scared he’s going to lose everything.

Beckham clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Georgie.”

“Apology accepted,” I reply softly.

“Let’s start over, and let’s be serious this time.” Sofia turns to look at me. “Georgie, we need your help.”

I look at Beckham, who avoids my gaze. Instead, his attention remains transfixed on the closed menu in front of him.

“We need to change the optics around Beckham’s situation,” Sofia says, now sounding like a social media strategist. “I’m going to trust you with the truth. He wore out his welcome in Denver. The partying. The nearly missing buses and flights. Late for practice. Beckham always got by on his talent, but in this case, it wasn’t enough. Denver traded him to Miami, and it should be a wake-up call.”

“I’m right here,” Beckham says, folding his arms defiantly across his chest. “Don’t talk about me like I’m a freaking toddler. I messed up. I know I messed up, and if I could do it over, I would. I know I have to change.” Those expressive eyes flash with determination.

And I believe him.

He turns to face me. “Listen, Georgie, I have to change my image. I know that. As annoying as my sister is, I trust Sofia. She says hard launching with a girlfriend”—he pauses and gives her a side-eye before continuing—“is one way to clean up my reputation. To show myself committed to someone and not be seen at a nightclub but going out for coffee with a date. You know, showing myself to be settled. Serious. Mature. At least for a month. Kind of like a reset. After I show this new side of myself, and we break up, I’ll just lie low. I’m not going to repeat the past. I won’t . But this is the one part of the solution that I need your help with. And Sofia says you’re perfect for the part.”

I stare back at him, all kinds of thoughts rushing through my head. I can see how a young man with his looks, income, and fame could get swept up into a wild lifestyle. I imagine Beckham thought he was invincible, too.

But sitting across the table from me isn’t an invincible man.

Rather, I see one who is humbled by the trade that abruptly shipped him off to Miami.

“How I see it,” Sofia says, “is you are not the woman anyone expects to see Beckham with. I know we don’t know you, but you have several things that immediately tick boxes for me. You run your own business. You’re a woman who is building her own future. You’re an artist. Creative. But it was the way you lit up when you spoke about Pinkmas that got me. Your love of Christmas, your joy in the season, your enthusiasm—well, I just knew you were the answer. Beckham being with you, doing couple-y Christmas things, will go a long way in showing how he’s changed. You can go on some romantic Christmas dates with him that we’ll post to his social media. Then you guys can stage some stuff at home and post that, too. All very doable.”

The doors open again, and our server returns with drinks. She places them down in front of us, and after we thank her, she says she’ll return in a moment to take our order.

As soon as she leaves, Sofia continues. “And you know you’ll be paid handsomely for your time. As well as get Beckham to promote your business.”

Oh yes, I do, I think. A check that will be a lifeline for Georgie’s Jars, and PR that I could never in my life afford to buy if Beckham promotes me.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “What’s Pinkmas?”

I furrow my brow. That’s his question? Not if I’ll do this, but “What’s Pinkmas?”

“Pink Christmas,” I say simply.

“What does that mean? Christmas isn’t pink,” Beckham says decisively.

“Christmas can be whatever you want it to be,” I insist. “You can celebrate it in a variety of themes and colors. That’s what makes it magical. I like for my decor to be pink. Glittery. Sparkles.”

“Oh my Christ,” he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s all a marketing ploy to sell more decor shit.”

He looks so grumpy about the idea of a pink Christmas that I want to burst out laughing.

But an idea sparks within me.

What if I could not only reset Beckham’s image with the Miami Manatees, but give him the joy of Christmas spirit, too? Wouldn’t that be amazing? That would be a true gift to give him, wouldn’t it?

When will I ever have the opportunity to share my love of Christmas like this?

Never, I think.

“I’ll do it,” I say simply.

Both of them stare at me in surprise. I don’t think either of them expected me to go along with this crazy idea so easily.

“You’re sure?” Sofia asks, almost as if she can’t believe I agreed to this bizarre offer.

“I’m sure.”

“Thank you,” she says, her face practically lighting up in relief. “This is going to change everything for Beckham, I just know it. I’ll get all your information, and I’ll work out a schedule going through New Year’s Eve. Days and nights where you can be seen in public. Nights you can go to his games. I’ll also come up with a schedule of when to post on your respective social media accounts and give you ideas for content. I’ll also work out a payment schedule for you. Oh, I also have a non-disclosure form for you to sign.”

She reaches into her tote bag and presents me with a document. “Read over this and sign it, please. You can scan it and email it back to me tomorrow.”

I stare at the document in front of me, and then I look at her.

“I have no problem signing this, but I’m going to be honest. My twin and my best friend already know about this meeting. It was such a … such a unique proposition, I had to talk it through with them. I hope you can understand that. But I know they will both sign non-disclosure agreements if I ask them to. There are also two other people who will need to know. My twin’s boyfriend, because he practically lives in our apartment half the time, and her best friend, because she will know something is up because this is not normal behavior for me. But that’s all. I won’t tell anyone else. Again, I know they’ll all sign an NDA if I ask. But I wanted to be upfront with you about it.”

Sofia makes a face, and I can tell she doesn’t like this.

“I understand your concern, but I’m being truthful because it matters to me. I could have just told them and never told you or Beckham I said anything.”

He groans and rubs his hand along his jaw. “Shit, this is embarrassing.”

I wince. I hate that I’ve made him feel this way. “I’m so sorry, but you have to understand where I’m coming from. I was asked to fake date a hockey player. I didn’t know what to think about it.”

“Other than it’s weird,” Beckham acknowledges.

“Yes,” I say, nodding.

Beckham appears to make a decision. “Just make them sign NDAs.”

I nod. “Of course. Sofia, if you can email me a blank form, I’ll have them sign it.”

“I’m more comfortable with this. Thank you for your honesty about it. Most people wouldn’t have been,” she says.

I feel Beckham’s gaze on me. “No, they wouldn’t,” he adds.

My cheeks grow warm from the way he’s studying me. It’s like a mixture of surprise and respect in his eyes.

“Just text me your email and I’ll get that form to you.” Sofia abruptly rises from the table and retrieves her bag. “Well, I’m out.”

“What?” Beckham says, appearing startled by this announcement. “Where are you going?”

“Well, you two need to get to know each other. I think it’s time for your first date. Have a good evening!”

With those cheerful words, Sofia strolls out the door, leaving me alone with Beckham.

And on a date I never expected.