Page 11 of Miami Ice

“I’m going to be sick!” I blurt out, my hand flying to my mouth.

“What?” Sofia gasps, leaping up from her chair.

I feel Beckham staring at me, but I keep my attention fixed on the floor, trying to quell the nausea and panic that are spreading like wildfire in my body. I feel clammy. I still smell the perfume of the hostess in the air, and now I’m in a complete panic about Beckham being too damn good-looking.

WHAT IF I HAVE TO KISS HIM?

Sofia puts her hands on my shoulders and guides me to a seat. I take it, trying to decide if I should bolt for the restroom or work to get this under control at the table.

She pushes a glass of water in front of me, and Beckham goes to the terrace door and opens it, and an ocean breeze filters through the room. I feel some relief from the fresh air—the toxic cloud that has enveloped me seems to dissipate a bit—and I feel brave enough to remove my hand from my mouth. I take a breath of air, and then I reach for the glass of water and take a sip. I glance up at Beckham, who is watching me with a smirk playing on those full lips of his.

GAH. He looks good even when he’s smirking.

“Are you okay?” Sofia asks, patting my back.

I put the glass down and breathe in the salty air. My stomach unwinds and I nod.

“Wow. That was impressive. It’s the first time I’ve met a woman and she wanted to vomit at the sight of me,” Beckham says, returning to the table.

Oh my God.

“No, no, that wasn’t it!” I protest, my neck burning bright red. “It was the perfume!”

He furrows his brow. “The perfume?”

“My perfume?” Sofia asks. “My perfume made you ill?”

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

“No, no, it was the hostess. She had this heavy, very musky scent, and it was making me sick,” I declare.

“So that wasn’t you?” Beckham asks, slipping into his seat across from me.

“Me?” I ask.

One corner of his mouth quirks up. His eyes still look sweet and innocent, but that quirk indicates trouble. “I thought you were wearing that perfume when you walked in,” he says, zeroing in on my face.

I screw up my nose. “No!”

Now the other side of his mouth tips up in a knowing smile. “Thank God. I could never fake date a woman who smelled like she was wearing something my grandma would wear.”

No, I bet you wouldn’t,I think.

“Let’s reset,” Sofia says. “Georgie … Oh, how weird, I just realized I don’t even know your last name.”

“Wait, you didn’t google her before setting this up?” Beckham asks, incredulous.

I cringe. This meeting couldn’t get off to a worse or more awkward start.

“Beckham. I didn’t need to. I told you she looked like an Elsa/Anna combo who does crafts. The wholesome factor is off the charts,” Sofia says. “And she loves Christmas!”

“Perfect. She could be a stalker fan, for all you know.”

“I assure you I’m not a stalker,” I say. “I don’t know anything about hockey, and I didn’t even know your name until Sofia told me.”

His gaze shifts back to me, but this time, it’s hard and assessing, as if he’s weighing out whether I’m telling him the truth or not.

“I have never done anything like this in my life,” I continue. “The idea of fake dating anyone is like something out of a romance novel on BookTok.”

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