Page 62 of Miami Ice

I turn to look at him. His eyes are glued on the road, of course, but at least he’s said something to break this tension between us.

“Apology accepted.”

“I’d still like to suggest you wear a coat,” he says quietly. “You’ll freeze in there if you don’t. The WAGS section is on the lower level.”

I manage a smile. “I promise I’ll wear a coat.”

Another silence falls between us, but this time, I decide to be the one to break it.

“You leave tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, I fly out tomorrow afternoon. Quick trip to Orlando.”

We reach my apartment building, and Beckham pulls up to the front. He idles the car, and I still don’t like the awkwardness I feel lingering between us.

“Would you like to come up?” I blurt out.

Oh, Georgie, why, why, why did you ask him that? What do you want to do with him upstairs? Usually you only invite a guy up if you want something to happen!

And obviously nothing is going to happen between me and my fake boyfriend.

BookTok would be SO disappointed.

“Why?” Beckham asks, a crease appearing on the bridge of his nose.

GREAT QUESTION, BECKHAM.

“Because you haven’t seen my apartment lit up for Christmas,” I lie.

That’s not a lie. He hasn’t seen it.

Beckham just never needs to know that wasn’t the real reason for inviting him up.

“And I need to see it now?” he asks, quirking a brow.

GAH, he would make this awkward.

“No, but since we’re here I thought I would offer.” Suddenly I’m hit with inspiration for this narrative and continue. “My parents will likely bring up my Christmas lights on Thanksgiving, so I thought you might be prepared. But it’s not a problem, I can send you photos if that’s easier.”

There. I sound like I’m all about business and I’ve given him an opt out with photos.

“No need for photos, Cupcake. I’ll come up.”

Beckham swings his car through the drive and enters the parking garage, and now my head is whirling. He’s coming up. It means nothing, of course, but at least it will give us a chance to reset and hopefully eradicate any weirdness left from the whole stupid tube-top conversation.

He pulls his Bronco into a space marked for visitor parking and turns off the engine. We both get out of the car and take the elevator up to my apartment.

“Why do I feel like I’ll need my sunglasses for this light show?” Beckham asks me.

Relief sweeps over me. Good. He’s back to being a smart ass, and that is definitely putting things back to where they were before.

“No. There’s no need to run back to your car and get them,” I say as the elevator chimes open. I retrieve my key card out of my purse as we walk toward my door. I smile up at him as I insert it in the lock. “Prepare to bedazzled.”

The door clicks open, and I step inside.

“Are you going to take it like a good girl?” Jordan commands.

I abruptly stop walking. For a moment, I’m frozen in horror.

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