Page 147 of Miami Ice

“I would love that,” I finally say. “And I have to get up early for Santa’s Art Walk and Craft Fair in Hollywood anyway. I’ll just leave from your house that morning.”

He snorts. “Santa’s Art Walk.”

“It’s not a lie. Santa will be there.”

“Of course he will.”

“And so will Mrs. Claus.”

“Good to hear they’re still together,” Beckham quips.

I can’t help it. I begin to laugh, and he does, too.

“Okay. Go to bed, sweetheart. I’ll text you in the morning,” he says gently. “I … I miss you.”

I swallow. “I miss you, too.”

Then we hang up. I turn down my pillows and turn off the light, looking at the ceiling fan whirling overhead. I can hear Winston softly snoring at the edge of my feet as I replay my favorite parts of the conversation I just had with Beckham in my head.

Specifically, the part about Beckham wanting to come home to me.

I think he’s falling in love with me,I think as warmth rushes through me.

And with that blissful thought in my head, I drift off to sleep.

* * *

“Chloe will be here in ten minutes,” I say to Emilee and Ella, putting my phone back down on the table.

It’s Friday night, and we’re seated on the patio at a Cuban-fusion restaurant in South Beach, waiting for Chloe. The evening is beautiful, as is our view. We’re seated in wicker chairs underneath a large umbrella, and across the street there’s a row of palm trees lightly dancing in the ocean breeze. The street is lit up in neon, and the vibe is uniquely South Beach as cars travel up and down the boulevard and the streets are filled with people ready to start the weekend.

But Friday night means something else to me.

In a few hours, Beckham will be playing Las Vegas. And then he’ll be coming straight home to me.

I grin to myself as the lyrics to “Karma” roll through my head, with me switching the lyric to reflect the Manatees instead of the Chiefs.

Okay that doesn’t roll off the tongue like when Taylor sings about the Chiefs, but I get goose bumps over it all the same.

“Oh my God, she’s thinking about Becks again, look at that sappy grin on her face!” Ella teases.

I blink. “I am not!”

“Liar!” she and Emilee cry at the same time.

I blush. Furiously. “I’m thinking of a Taylor Swift song,” I refute.

Which is not a lie.

“Ooh, I bet it’s one that makes you think of Becks!” Emilee cries.

“Which one is it, Georgie? ‘Delicate’?” Ella teases.

“Shut up,” I groan.

“Or ‘Gorgeous?’” Emilee adds.

I ignore them and flip open my menu. “It’s not fair that you two gang up on me without my wingman here.”

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