Page 70 of Miami Ice

I set down my knife, thinking of the conversations I’ve had with Beckham since I met him. “No, I don’t think he will. He’s determined to learn from his mistakes. He’s going through all of this to prove a point, you know? That he can be mature, settled, and serious.”

“But he could prove that without a girlfriend,” she points out.

“The girlfriend angle helps,” Emilee counters, stepping in with her social media expertise. “It’s something he can show, and it’s something that resonates with people. Happy Mr. You Know Who with sweet girlfriend, doing mundane couple things and sharing on Story Share? Huge points.”

“That’s fair,” Chloe concedes. “You launch next week, right?”

Drinks are now brought to the table, and I take a sip of wine before answering. “Yes. Thanksgiving Day.”

“This is crazy,” Ella says, shaking her head.

“Do you get to fake kiss him?” Emilee asks, grinning.

My cheeks and neck flame with heat. “No,” I say, “I will not.”

“You need a better contract. I totally would have worked that in for you,” Ella teases.

I bet you would have worked in some whipped cream and sprinkles, too, I think mischievously.

Then I get a flash of me being covered in whipped cream and having sex with Beckham, and I suddenly want to shoutwith absurd laughter, fan myself, and blush some more all at the same time.

I’m a mess. The textbook definition of a hot freaking mess.

“You know, fake dating might be the way to go,” Chloe muses. “You get the perks of dating, like going out, but you know exactly what you are getting. No surprises.”

“I want a Jordan,” Emilee declares. “He’s hot, sweet, smart, loyal … a combination I’ve never had the joy of experiencing first-hand.”

Emilee’s last boyfriend cheated on her, and she’s just recovered enough from the devastation to attempt dating again. Meanwhile, Chloe hasn’t dated since her last relationship imploded over the summer.

The server returns to our table to take our orders, but none of us have even looked at the menu options yet. We all focus on selecting something to eat, and I go to the pastas, trying to decide between the rigatoni with vodka sauce or the spaghetti with crab when my phone pings with a notification.

I absently glance down, as that sound is set for my Connectivity Story Share, but freeze when I see it’s a comment on the photo I just posted. But it isn’t just any comment:

@BecksBailey HEY NOW

My heart slams against my ribs. I stare at it, stunned that I’m seeing Beckham’s name, let alone a comment.

I go straight back to our conversation over shakes, when I told him I wasn’t the kind of girl that a guy said “hey now” over. Now Beckham is telling me he sees me asexactlythat kind of girl.

The fact that he’s checking out my Story Share and making that comment in public?

Something has changed.

I try to repress the hope that is rising within me.

It could be nothing,I tell myself.

Or it could be everything.

And I won’t know until I see him again on Thanksgiving exactly what this means.

Chapter Seventeen

On Wednesday night, I settle in on the sofa with a salmon salad, iced tea with lemon, and Winston. Ella and Jordan went out to meet some friends for dinner and drinks, so I have my twinkling Christmassy wonderland of an apartment all to myself to enjoy this evening.

Except I’m not in the mood to enjoy Christmas.

I’m in the mood to watch hockey.

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