Page 39 of Miami Ice

I never thought of that. Fans probably do try to follow him. I would hate that part of being famous.

Actually, I would hate a lot of it.

Which is probably why I’m trying to make a living painting jars, where I’m left alone to be creative.

I clear my throat. “It has to be something fast and sporty,” I say, skimming over the rows of vehicles. “Hmm. That appears to be a thread here.”

“Yes, but there are Bentleys and Mercedes.”

“Yes, but that’s not you. At least not at this point in your life.”

“Interesting. Okay, go on. Which one?”

I narrow down my choices between a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, and a Porsche.

“I’m going to go with the Lamborghini,” I say.

Beckham makes a noise like a buzzer when you give the incorrect answer on a game show.

“You aren’t even close,” he says. “I drive a Bronco.”

A Bronco. This completely surprises me. I’d never picture him in a car that wasn’t flashy, or the price of a home. “I did you wrong,” I declare. “I totally saw you in some insane sports car.”

We resume walking toward the gray Bronco. “Well, in full transparency, I do have a sports car in storage right now. Once I have my house and a garage, I’ll get it out. But I kind of associate my sports car with my wild nights, so for now, I’m mothballing it. This Bronco works just fine.”

My brain zeroes in on that. “You really want to change from the person you were in Denver, don’t you?”

Beckham stops walking. “I wouldn’t be doing all of this if I didn’t. I know I messed up, Georgie. But the more I think about it? Do I want to be the man I was?” He pauses and looks around,making sure nobody is within earshot of us. “I understand now how I have to take the game seriously. But I also see that if I want to attract the right kind of people into my life, I can’t be the person I was before.”

I feel my heartbeat quicken inside my chest. These don’t sound like the words of a man who merely wants to play a part for a month for damage control with a new team.

These sound like the words of a man who is truly ready to change.

“You just have to be true to yourself,” I encourage quietly. “If that’s the person you want to be, then you can be him, Beckham.”

Our eyes meet. I think I can hear my heart beating, it’s so loud.

“Right,” he says simply. Then he clears his throat and walks over to the passenger side of his SUV, opening the door for me. “Do you need a lift up?” he teases.

“No,” I say, climbing up into the Bronco. “But thank you for the kind offer. That was gentlemanly.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t get used to it. I did that by accident. I’m not a gentleman.”

I smile smugly at him. “You are, and you don’t even know it.”

“Hmph.”

I watch as he walks around to his side of the car. He opens the back door and takes a moment to slip out of his suit jacket, draping it across the back seat. Then I watch as Beckham unbuttons his cuffs, and holy mother of God, he’s rolling up his shirtsleeves.

Is there anything sexier than a good-looking man with his shirtsleeves rolled up?

I tear my gaze away from him, so I don’t get caught looking, and consider my answer to that question.

Nope. There’s not.

Beckham finally opens the driver’s side door, slipping behind the wheel. His inked arms are visible from the wrists to right below the elbows, where the tattoos disappear beneath the fabric of the white dress shirt. One arm has a huge watch on it; the other has leather bracelets.

I have so many questions I want to ask, so I decide to just ask them.

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