Page 69 of Miami Ice

Beckham has made it clear I’m a person he’s fond of, not someone he would ever want to date.

Fond of in the same way he would be of someone named Aunt Edna, for example. I wince at that comparison, wishing it weren’t true.

But it is.

Beckham has made it clear that is the only way he’ll ever look at me. I’d be wise to remember it.

No matter how much it hurts.

* * *

“We have to get a picture here!” Emilee cries, moving over to a spot in the restaurant that is one hundred percent ConnectivityStory Share worthy. “And Georgie, you need to turn a bit so you can show off that fabulous open back on your top!”

Emilee is all about recording the moment—it plays into her career as a social media strategist—and I expect nothing less than for her to find a visually perfect spot for a photo.

This restaurant is in South Beach, and we’re lucky enough to have been seated outside, underneath a wooden trellis with stunning pendant lights suspended from it. Also adding to the charm are bare trees lit up with twinkling clear Christmas lights. There are sofas and tables, and blue and white fabrics are used throughout the space for a coastal vibe.

Emilee approaches the hostess to ask if she can snap a picture before we are seated at the table.

“Of course,” she says cheerfully.

We all stand in front of one of the lighted trees, and I make sure to turn so I’m looking over my shoulder. I went with a sparkly pink blouse that dips low in the back and paired it with black wide-legged trousers. My hair is done up in braids around the top of my head, and I feel festive and beautiful this evening.

“Okay, on the count of three,” the hostess says. “One, two, three.”

The picture is taken, and then we are seated at our table. Emilee texts it to our group chat, and I take a moment to study it. I’m next to my twin, whose face is lit up with happiness. Next to her is Emilee, her best friend since they met during sorority rush at FSU. On my other side is Chloe, who has been my best friend since preschool. Emilee works as a social media assistant for a large furniture chain here in Miami, while Chloe works as a financial data analyst for a taco restaurant group.

Fun fact? She hates tacos.

I go ahead and upload the picture to Connectivity Story Share, as all of us look so good in it. I tag everyone, write aquick caption about it being our annual Friendsgiving dinner, and then set my phone aside.

“It’s time for a cocktail,” Ella declares, flipping her leather-bound menu open to the drinks page. I flip to the same page, studying my options. Sadly, there are no Christmas-inspired cocktails on the menu yet, so I decide to go with a glass of red wine.

The second our drink orders are in, Chloe turns to me, her hazel eyes dancing expectantly. “Okay, we’ve waited long enough. Spill everything about you know who,” she blurts out.

“Well, that’s a subtle way to introduce the topic,” I tease.

Chloe arches a perfectly penciled eyebrow up at me. “Since when have I ever been subtle?”

Hmm. That’s an incredibly fair point.

“I want to know how a girl gets this gig,” Emilee says, tucking a lock of her long chestnut-brown hair behind one ear and causing it to cascade over her spaghetti-strapped shoulder. “Like why am I posting about the joys of stain-resistant sofas on Connectivity Story Share when you’re being paid to do something very different?”

I love how my friends smartly know not to bring up Beckham without using code in a public space.

“Right?” Chloe chimes in. “I have to run numbers on tacos—not the glam job I envisioned when I was getting my degree at UM—but Georgie gets to live out afantasy.”

“It’s right out of BookTok,” Ella adds sagely, nodding for emphasis.

And she says it so reverently and seriously, I burst into a fit of giggles.

“You all are acting like this is my real job,” I say, staring back at them in amusement. “It’s not. This is all for Georgie’s Jars and to clean up his image. Then poof! Just like Cinderella at midnight, it’s all going to be over.”

“So what? Even if it’s a temporary assignment, I’d take it,” Emilee declares.

Another server appears, setting down a basket of assorted breads and pots of butter with sea salt flakes over the top. We all reach for some, and conversation continues as I slather my bread with butter.

“What is Mr. You Know Who really like, Georgie? Do you get the impression he’ll go back to his ways once he’s settled here in Miami?” Chloe asks, taking a bite of her bread.

---