Page 17 of Miami Ice

“That’s because I’m being misrepresented.”

“Hmm, you’re going to have to prove that you are,” I challenge. I shift my gaze back to my menu and keep the smile on my face, because I know he’s even more annoyed. “Will your eating plan allow you the joy of a starter? I bet the coach wouldlike that way more than you training for a second career as a promoter in some club in South Beach.”

My quip is met with silence for a few seconds. Then he laughs softly, the sound low and rolling across the table toward me. I look up, and this time, his face is lit up in amusement.

“You have some bite under that sweet exterior, don’t you?” Beckham asks, absently running his finger around the rim of his iced tea glass.

“I’m not the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

He lifts a brow. “Or Elsa/Anna?”

“Contrary to what Sofia thinks, no. I had my hair braided when she met me, and that made her think I was like an Elsa/Anna.”

He casts his gaze back down to his menu and I feel a triumphant smile form on my lips as I go back to the starters. “You just made small talk, by the way,” I say.

Silence.

Finally, there’s a snort. “Whatever.”

I don’t know why, but a sense of pride sweeps through me.

“Can I get an appetizer, Beckham?” I ask.

“I don’t know, can you?”

I look up. “What do you mean?”

“Can you look at the menu and select an appetizer? I mean, I could be presumptuous and say yes, but I figured I would ask.”

His eyes are dancing now.

“Well, yes, I can, but since I’m assuming you’re picking up the bill this evening, I thought it would be polite to ask. I’d like to try a cup of the french onion consommé with the whipped Gruyère topping.”

Beckham’s brows draw into a V. “Of course you can have that. You can have anything you like, Georgie. I’m the one who invited you to dinner. Well, Sofia did, but it was for me and I’m here now. So please, don’t even think about it.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Because that soup sounds intriguing. I love french onion soup. And this sounds like a fancy version of it that I’ll probably never see again.”

I shift my attention back to the menu, remembering how my parents fought over money all the time. Even if we went to a restaurant, they would argue over what we could order and how much to spend. My mother thinks you should simply order an entrée and everything else is extravagant. My dad likes to have experiences and would argue we could have whatever we wanted.

I frown, having a flashback to my parents erupting into an argument at a restaurant when I was twelve, and the shame I felt over it. Then the guilt, because I had excitedly asked if I could try the shrimp cocktail. My mother said no, that was a ridiculous waste of money, and did I think it grew on trees, which made me feel small and stupid. Then my father attacked her, saying he was paying the bill, I could absolutely have it, and more to the point, he wanted his daughters to have experiences. It ended in a scene in the restaurant and us having to leave before we even received our drinks.

“Georgie, are you okay?”

I jerk my head up, my neck growing hot as I see that Beckham has been watching me. “What? Of course I am.”

“I don’t think you are. You look sad.”

I reach for my Diet Coke as a distraction and take a sip. I’m a little bit disarmed he noticed my change in mood merely by my expression.

“I’m not sad, I promise. I’m Christmas Sparkle, remember? This is my season. From now until New Year’s Eve, I’m in my happy place.” Then I quickly change the subject, as I don’t want him to dig any deeper on that momentary lapse I made in front of him. “For the record, you could try the french onionconsommé with me, you know. Oh! As part of our relationship story, we can say this is the first food we ever tried together!”

“We have to make up a wholestory?” Beckham asks, sounding surprised.

“Of course we do. We want this to be authentic for your coaches and teammates. You don’t wing something like this.”

I nearly laugh out loud when I see the scowl appear on his face.

“Beckham. I promise, I’m going to make this fun. Wait until you hear the ideas I have for our Christmas dates. Oh, I hope you like hot chocolate, because we’ll definitely want to have a night in where we decorate a tree and take pictures of us doing that. And then pics of us sipping hot chocolate in front of a fire playing on your TV. And Beckham! We’ll have to get some matching fuzzy Christmas socks for the picture, too. Do you prefer green or red?”

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