Page 22 of Miami Ice

Truth be told? I think he actually enjoyed it.

Like I’ve learned that Beckham is a cat person and has a tuxedo cat named Minnie. It didn’t take much prompting to get him to show me pictures of her in his phone, and my heart melted when I heard the affection in his voice when he talked about her. When he asked if I had a pet, I told him about Winston. Then I pulled up my latest pic with him wearing a mistletoe collar, and Beckham groaned in disgust, asking why I would torture a dog like that.

But I’m pretty sure I saw a glimmer of amusement in those eyes of his.

While our conversation was light, it was wide-ranging. I learned pizza is his favorite food, and I shared that chocolate mousse is mine. We both like coffee and drink it several timesa day. He likes to binge-watch TV series, whereas I like to savor them one episode at a time. He confessed to spending a lot of money when he first landed in the league and having a weakness for designer clothing. He said his game day “fit” is super important, and he loves the opportunity to wear his designer suits to the rink. I shared how I spend a lot of my days in old jeans and T-shirts when I’m working, just because of the messiness of what I do—sanding and painting.

Our conversation flowed and never lagged or got awkward—which I fully anticipated it doing. In fact, I had to keep reminding myself this was a fact-finding mission and not just dinner with Beckham.

“All right, we’re good to go,” he says, shutting the black leather bill holder.

“Beckham?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for this evening. I know it was a business meeting, but it didn’t feel that way. And that was thanks to you.”

Beckham almost looks taken aback by what I’ve said. Gah, I hope I didn’t make things awkward with that compliment. He probably doesn’t want this to be comfortable, he just wants me to help him get his reputation rewritten in the eyes of the team and on social media.

I’m about to try and clarify when he suddenly turns and looks over his shoulder. The door he had opened at the beginning of the evening—when I was in desperate need of fresh air—is still open. He turns back to me and clears his throat.

“Wanna go take a walk along the beach?”

WHAT?

I blink. The stupid flutter thing returns in my chest.

“Walk?” I manage to say.

Suddenly a smirk appears on his full lips. “Yeah, you know, you put one foot in front of the other. But I’m suggesting we do it on the sand.”

“I can see why you get napkins lobbed at your head.”

“Believe me, I’ve had much worse than napkins lobbed at me.”

“Pucks,” I say, thinking of his career.

“Well, yeah, but the last thing—before the deadly linen napkin that Sofia threw at me—was a stiletto.”

“Why is it I can see that?” I reply wryly.

“I’m not going to lie. I completely deserved it. But I ducked and the stiletto landed in the wall behind me. As in the heel smashed into the drywall and stuck there. It was kind of funny, actually.”

“I’m not going to ask what you did to deserve that.”

Beckham makes a face. “Yes. Don’t,” he agrees.

We both chuckle at that.

“Come on, Cupcake. Walk with me,” he says.

I glance outside. The Hotel Fredrico has a pristine private beach, with the golden sands looking almost white under the moonlight tonight.

“Okay,” I agree.

We both rise from the table and exit out to the patio, where palm trees tower over us, lit in white lights for the holiday season. Beckham pauses, sitting down on the edge of it and removing his dress shoes and socks. I carefully unbuckle my stilettos and then hold one up to him.

“Do I need to carry this in case I need to fling it at your head?” I tease.

---