Page 13 of Miami Ice

I blush. He’s referring to my dress.

Also, I should be offended he’s calling me Cupcake. But I’m not.

TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE.

Before I can respond, Sofia lobs her crumpled linen napkin across the table, hitting Beckham in the face.

“Hey!” he snaps. “What was that for?”

“Would you shut up? You’re going to run her out of here, and we haven’t even talked about anything!”

The door opens, and we all stop as the server enters the room.

“Good evening,” she says, smiling at us. “I’m Dara, and I’ll be your server this evening. What can I get you to drink tonight? Perhaps one of our seasonal cocktails? The sugar-cookie martini is my personal favorite.”

I feel Beckham’s attention shift to me before he looks back at the server. “Does the cocktail havesprinkles?” he asks mischievously. “I hear that’s important this time of year.”

Then he winks at me.

WINKS.

Is that flirty? Mocking? Both?

I stare at him, my brain trying to work him out. But I can’t. At least not yet.

“The sugar-cookie martini does have sprinkles,” Dara confirms with a smile. “Would you like one?”

Beckham shakes his head. “No, thank you. I’ll have an iced tea, please.”

So the party boy is not drinking tonight. Maybe he is serious about this proposition after all.

“I’ll have the same,” Sofia says.

“Very well,” Dara says. She looks at me. “And for you, ma’am?”

“I’d like a Diet Coke with a slice of lemon, please,” I say.

She smiles and clears the wine list and cocktail menu off the table, saying she’ll be right back with our drinks.

As soon as the door is shut, Beckham lobs a napkin back at Sofia, smacking her in the nose. “You might need that during dinner,” he points out.

“And you might need Georgie to restore your reputation, but you’ve probably pissed that opportunity away already,” she retorts. “I’m half-surprised she hasn’t walked out of here. Because I’m about to, Beckham. I’m about to let you sort this mess out yourself. And good luck with that, because you, my dear baby brother, are showing you’re incapable of it.”

Beckham’s expression completely changes. I wait to see a flash of anger across his handsome face, or some smart retort roll past those full lips of his.

But it doesn’t.

Gone is the smirk. And there’s something different in those large, brown eyes of his.

Worry.

I’m so shocked when I see it, I have to check twice. I do not know this man. I know the checkers at the local Target better than I know Beckham Bailey. But my gut leans in hard to this instinct, and somehow, I know I’m right.

He’s scared,I think with shock.This man who can skate on knives for a living, playing a hard-hitting sport on an ice surface, is scared he’s going to lose everything.

Beckham clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Georgie.”

“Apology accepted,” I reply softly.

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