Page 16 of Miami Ice

“A date, you mean?” I ask, picking up my Diet Coke and taking a sip.

He lifts his hand to his hair and begins raking it, causing his thick waves to shift and fall in different positions on his head.

“No. This was supposed to be a meeting to get you to go along with this crazy scheme—but I also know a hundred grand is a pretty good incentive to go along with it.”

“It can save a dream,” I say quietly.

Beckham’s brows knit together. “What?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. It’s not important. But we can use this time to get to know each other and get some ideas of what we can do for the upcoming month.”

That sexy mouth tugs downward in disapproval. “I don’t know how to date,” he says, annoyance creeping into his voice.

I blink. Several times.

“Don’t look so shocked. I’m sure you know the brief on me, Cupcake.”

“I know you like to party in nightclubs and you like hot women, but surely you’ve dated.”

Beckham’s face remains the same. “Nope.”

“How is that possible?” I blurt out.

Now the corners of his mouth tug back upward, a playful smile beginning to form on his lips. “Ihook up. Not date.”

Oh. Well, that clears that up, then.

“This is more like a business meeting anyway,” I say. Then I flash him a smile. “And look, you’re on time for this one!”

I wait for him to scowl, but to my surprise, he almost looks impressed. “Touché,” he says, smiling softly at me.

“Let’s look at the menu first,” I say, flipping mine open. “We can place our order when the server comes back, and then we can talk.”

Beckham doesn’t challenge this idea, and we sit in silence as we look over our menus. Which I can stand for all of about twenty seconds before I begin talking again.

“Just for the record, if this were a real date, I’d be making small talk with you about appetizer selections.”

“Two problems. I don’t do small talk. And I don’t care about food.”

I snap my head up. “How can you not care aboutfood?”

He lifts his broad shoulders up in a shrug. “It’s fuel. I eat to play hockey. I have since I started playing club hockey as a youth.”

I never thought of that. I’m sure he does have to work out things like carbs and fats and proteins, all targeted for optimal athletic performance.

“I’m sure you don’t eat like that every day,” I insist.

“I really don’t care.”

I chuckle. “You really are a grump, aren’t you?”

His brows shoot up. “Just because I don’t care about Christmas or food doesn’t make me a grump.”

Ooh, Beckham doesn’t like his grumpiness pointed out. I’ll have to remember that.

“You can quit with the smirk,” he scowls.

“Oh no, that’s a smile, not a smirk. I think it’s funny how much you hate being called a grump.”

---