Page 47 of Miami Ice

“What is a jackwagon, anyway?” I ask, growing thoughtful. “I know people use it as a term for a loser, but what does itreallymean?”

Beckham furrows his brow. “I have no freaking idea.”

We’re both cracking up again.

“So we’re using words we don’t understand,” I say. “We need to look this up. I’ll consult Google.”

“I’m afraid of what I’m going to hear,” Beckham says.

I type in “jackwagon” and a definition comes up for me. “Interesting. A jackwagon is a loser.”

“I’m so glad you cleared that up,” Beckham quips.

“Oh, stop it, you didn’t know either!”

I go on to read the origin of the term—which deals with wagons back in the nineteenth century—and then put my phone down. “There. Now we’re both educated.”

“Or jackwagons for looking it up,” Beckham teases. Then his eyes laser in on mine. “Back to my question. If you’re interested in dating, I don’t know why you’re available. You’re gorgeous. You’re sweet. Kind. Funny. You’re a good listener. So how is a woman like you not dating?”

My heart begins to race from all the wonderful words he’s used to describe me. I’m touched that it’s more than my looks. I grow all warm inside from the things he sees in me in such a short period of time.

I stare back at him. Beckham has been vulnerable with me. Now it’s time for me to open up and be a bit vulnerable for him, too.

“I’m not the kind of girl guys want to date,” I say simply.

The crease is back in Beckham’s brow. “What? Why would you say that?”

I smile at him. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. It’s the truth. I’ve never been the type to just date, I’ve always craved a relationship. I love the idea oflove,and let’s face it, that scares a lot of guys my age. I like serious conversations. My ideal date night isn’t going out to some chic restaurant and hitting a club. This time of year? My perfect date is sitting in front of a lit Christmas tree getting cozy on the sofa. I met a guy at a party in college once and he told me, ‘You’re not the kind of girl I date. You’re the kind I marry. And I’m not interested in that right now.’ I think he was right. That’s what guys see in me.”

“Jackwagon,” Beckham declares.

I snicker at that. “While I appreciate your defense of me, I’m not the type of woman you’d pick up either, am I right?”

He’s saved from answering this question by the appearance of the server at our table with two huge shakes. “The gingerbread butterscotch?” she asks.

Beckham’s eyes widen as he takes a look at the enormous shake she has in her hand. “Holy sh—I mean, that’s me, thank you.”

She smiles and places the shake in front of him. “And one sugar cookie,” she says, setting my drink in front of me.

“Thank you,” I say.

As soon as she steps away, I take a moment to study my shake. The scent of ice cream and sugar wafts up toward me. It’s piled high with whipped cream and Christmas-colored sprinkles. There’s a sugar cookie perched on top and it’s sheer indulgence.

“This is insane,” Beckham says, peering down at his shake. Marshmallow cream is dripping down the sides of the glass, topped by butterscotch sauce and a mound of whipped cream, and finished off with a gingerbread man hanging off the side.

“Right? But that’s what makes it fun.”

“Or makes you sick.”

“Grumpy,” I say, plucking my cookie off the top.

“Aren’t you going to take a picture first? Before you eat it?” Beckham asks.

“No. I’m living in the moment. But I reserve full rights to take a picture of you eating your shake as the start of you celebrating the Christmas season.”

He scowls. I laugh.

I break the cookie in half and hold it out to him. “Want some? The sugar cookies here are so good.”

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