Page 5 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

Beckham’s mouth falls open as soon as his sister walks away. “Sofia!” he calls out, quickly rising from his seat. “What are you doing? You can’t leave me here!”

Now I’m the one who is smirking. Apparently, Beckham is terrified of being alone with a woman who loves sprinkles and, in his words, is dressed like a cupcake liner.

I turn and look at Sofia over my shoulder. Her brown eyes are dancing, and a triumphant smile appears on her beautiful face. “Yes, I can. I’m going to lay out plans for the hard launch. Maybe we should do it on Thanksgiving. If Georgie can swing by for a piece of pie and a photo op.”

Beckham snorts. “Terrific. So I’m traded at the beginning of the month, and by Thanksgiving I’m not only hard launching, but I’m bringing my new girlfriend to Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Yes. Why not? You’ve got insta-love,” Sofia says cheerfully.

Beckham lets out a frustrated groan. “People who know me will never believe any of this shit.”

The smile falls from Sofia’s lips. “But who have you let inside your guarded walls besides your family, Beckham? Who knows the real you?”

Then she opens the door and sails out of the dining room.

Ooh, intrigue. What did Sofia mean by the real Beckham? Why does he have a need to guard his walls?

What is he afraid people will find?

Beckham exhales loudly, curses, and then takes his seat across from me. “I’m sorry. This is not what I had planned this evening.”

“A date, you mean?” I ask, picking up my Diet Coke and taking a sip.

He lifts his hand to his hair and begins raking it, causing his thick waves to shift and fall in different positions on his head.

“No. This was supposed to be a meeting to get you to go along with this crazy scheme—but I also know a hundred grand is a pretty good incentive to go along with it.”

“It can save a dream,” I say quietly.

Beckham’s brows knit together. “What?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. It’s not important. But we can use this time to get to know each other and get some ideas of what we can do for the upcoming month.”

That sexy mouth tugs downward in disapproval. “I don’t know how to date,” he says, annoyance creeping into his voice.

I blink. Several times.

“Don’t look so shocked. I’m sure you know the brief on me, Cupcake.”

“I know you like to party in nightclubs and you like hot women, but surely you’ve dated.”

Beckham’s face remains the same. “Nope.”

“How is that possible?” I blurt out.

Now the corners of his mouth tug back upward, a playful smile beginning to form on his lips. “I hook up . Not date.”

Oh. Well, that clears that up, then.

“This is more like a business meeting anyway,” I say. Then I flash him a smile. “And look, you’re on time for this one!”

I wait for him to scowl, but to my surprise, he almost looks impressed. “Touché,” he says, smiling softly at me.

“Let’s look at the menu first,” I say, flipping mine open. “We can place our order when the server comes back, and then we can talk.”

Beckham doesn’t challenge this idea, and we sit in silence as we look over our menus. Which I can stand for all of about twenty seconds before I begin talking again.

“Just for the record, if this were a real date, I’d be making small talk with you about appetizer selections.”

“Two problems. I don’t do small talk. And I don’t care about food.”

I snap my head up. “How can you not care about food? ”

He lifts his broad shoulders up in a shrug. “It’s fuel. I eat to play hockey. I have since I started playing club hockey as a youth.”

I never thought of that. I’m sure he does have to work out things like carbs and fats and proteins, all targeted for optimal athletic performance.

“I’m sure you don’t eat like that every day,” I insist.

“I really don’t care.”

I chuckle. “You really are a grump, aren’t you?”

His brows shoot up. “Just because I don’t care about Christmas or food doesn’t make me a grump.”

Ooh, Beckham doesn’t like his grumpiness pointed out. I’ll have to remember that.

“You can quit with the smirk,” he scowls.

“Oh no, that’s a smile, not a smirk. I think it’s funny how much you hate being called a grump.”

“That’s because I’m being misrepresented.”

“Hmm, you’re going to have to prove that you are,” I challenge. I shift my gaze back to my menu and keep the smile on my face, because I know he’s even more annoyed. “Will your eating plan allow you the joy of a starter? I bet the coach would like that way more than you training for a second career as a promoter in some club in South Beach.”

My quip is met with silence for a few seconds. Then he laughs softly, the sound low and rolling across the table toward me. I look up, and this time, his face is lit up in amusement.

“You have some bite under that sweet exterior, don’t you?” Beckham asks, absently running his finger around the rim of his iced tea glass.

“I’m not the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

He lifts a brow. “Or Elsa/Anna?”

“Contrary to what Sofia thinks, no. I had my hair braided when she met me, and that made her think I was like an Elsa/Anna.”

He casts his gaze back down to his menu and I feel a triumphant smile form on my lips as I go back to the starters. “You just made small talk, by the way,” I say.

Silence.

Finally, there’s a snort. “Whatever.”

I don’t know why, but a sense of pride sweeps through me.

“Can I get an appetizer, Beckham?” I ask.

“I don’t know, can you?”

I look up. “What do you mean?”

“Can you look at the menu and select an appetizer? I mean, I could be presumptuous and say yes, but I figured I would ask.”

His eyes are dancing now.

“Well, yes, I can, but since I’m assuming you’re picking up the bill this evening, I thought it would be polite to ask. I’d like to try a cup of the french onion consommé with the whipped Gruyère topping.”

Beckham’s brows draw into a V. “Of course you can have that. You can have anything you like, Georgie. I’m the one who invited you to dinner. Well, Sofia did, but it was for me and I’m here now. So please, don’t even think about it.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Because that soup sounds intriguing. I love french onion soup. And this sounds like a fancy version of it that I’ll probably never see again.”

I shift my attention back to the menu, remembering how my parents fought over money all the time. Even if we went to a restaurant, they would argue over what we could order and how much to spend. My mother thinks you should simply order an entrée and everything else is extravagant. My dad likes to have experiences and would argue we could have whatever we wanted.

I frown, having a flashback to my parents erupting into an argument at a restaurant when I was twelve, and the shame I felt over it. Then the guilt, because I had excitedly asked if I could try the shrimp cocktail. My mother said no, that was a ridiculous waste of money, and did I think it grew on trees, which made me feel small and stupid. Then my father attacked her, saying he was paying the bill, I could absolutely have it, and more to the point, he wanted his daughters to have experiences. It ended in a scene in the restaurant and us having to leave before we even received our drinks.

“Georgie, are you okay?”

I jerk my head up, my neck growing hot as I see that Beckham has been watching me. “What? Of course I am.”

“I don’t think you are. You look sad.”

I reach for my Diet Coke as a distraction and take a sip. I’m a little bit disarmed he noticed my change in mood merely by my expression.

“I’m not sad, I promise. I’m Christmas Sparkle, remember? This is my season. From now until New Year’s Eve, I’m in my happy place.” Then I quickly change the subject, as I don’t want him to dig any deeper on that momentary lapse I made in front of him. “For the record, you could try the french onion consommé with me, you know. Oh! As part of our relationship story, we can say this is the first food we ever tried together!”

“We have to make up a whole story ?” Beckham asks, sounding surprised.

“Of course we do. We want this to be authentic for your coaches and teammates. You don’t wing something like this.”

I nearly laugh out loud when I see the scowl appear on his face.

“Beckham. I promise, I’m going to make this fun. Wait until you hear the ideas I have for our Christmas dates. Oh, I hope you like hot chocolate, because we’ll definitely want to have a night in where we decorate a tree and take pictures of us doing that. And then pics of us sipping hot chocolate in front of a fire playing on your TV. And Beckham! We’ll have to get some matching fuzzy Christmas socks for the picture, too. Do you prefer green or red?”

“Christ,” he mumbles, rubbing his hand across his face, “you are freaking Christmas Sparkle.”

“I am.”

He rolls his eyes and focuses on the menu. But I keep my gaze on him, this stranger in front of me, my brain working in overdrive.

I’m going to assume he’s happy when he’s on the ice and playing hockey. I know he’s happy when he’s partying, and well, and I don’t want to think about how happy he must be when he’s hooking up.

Ew.

But he needs joy in other things.

And although I can’t explain why, I feel determined to help him find it.