Page 101 of Miami Ice

Now he quirks a brow in interest. “How?”

Crap. How? I never think these brilliant thoughts through before they fly out of my mouth.

“I have no idea,” I admit.

A huge smile lights up his face. “This is why I adore you.”

“Because I say things and then have no idea what they mean?”

“Yes. You’re real. I love that about you.”

I think I’m so happy, I could burst.

He retrieves a crab claw, and I watch as he picks off the shell and tosses it into the bowl. Then he pulls out a piece of claw meat and dips it into the traditional mustard sauce before eating it.

Beckham’s face doesn’t reveal anything at first. Or within seconds.

“Well?” I ask.

He flashes me a smile. “You can’t stand not knowing what I think, can you?”

“No!”

“It’s delicious. You did not undersell it.”

“Now try it with the cocktail sauce, you’ll take it to another level with that.”

“What will you do for me if you’re overselling it?”

I feel my cheeks flame, and he flashes me a mischievous smile.

“Just shut up and eat it,” I finally say.

Beckham pulls out another piece of meat and dips it into the metal cup containing the cocktail sauce. He eats it, and then grins at me. “You’re right. The cocktail sauce is damn good with that.”

“I’m glad you like it. And that I didn’t oversell it,” I say, picking up another claw.

We chat easily as we plow through the claws, and I’m worried I might be too full for dinner by the time it arrives.

But when my king crab legs are placed before me, and Beckham’s New York strip before him, I decide I’m hungry all over again.

“You realize next week we’re going to be eating so much food, and here we are stuffing ourselves with a lush dinner,” I say.

“I fully realize that, and I stand by our choices.”

I chuckle as I crack apart my crab shell. I remove a piece of the meat and dip it into the cocktail sauce, taking a bite and thinking I’ve never had a better meal in my life. I’m eating by the ocean, with palm trees overhead, sitting with my boyfriend.

I’m so blessed.

As I’m eating, I become aware of Beckham staring at me.

I decide to be flirty. “Are you still getting excited south of the belt buckle by watching me orgasmically consume crab?”

“No. I’m staring at the piece of crab shell that’s stuck in your braid.”

“What?” I cry, patting my hair.

Beckham smirks and reaches across the table, pulling something out of my braid. He holds up the piece of bright red shell before tossing it into the bowl next to my plate.

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