Page 42 of Miami Ice

“Stay strong, Beckham. Ignore the siren song,” I tease as we walk past a club that has a line out the door.

“No, I’m committed to the shake,” he says dryly.

An ocean breeze drifts across us, which I really need as I’m still in my maniacal nutcracker sweater. It ruffles through Beckham’s thick, dark locks, and a piece of hair falls down across his forehead, which he reaches up and pushes back into place.

“Here we are,” I say as we approach the milkshake bar.

“I hope I meet the dress code for entrance,” Beckham teases. “I’d hate to be turned away by the shake bouncer.”

I crack up at that, and he grins at me. Just as we reach the door, he turns and stands in front of it, as if blocking my entry. “I have one condition if you want me to go inside with you,” he says.

“Um, I think it’s too late. We’re at the door.”

“I don’t have to go inside,” Beckham challenges, his eyes sparkling mischievously at me.

Mischievous never looked so hot.

“Go on.”

“I told you some stuff in the car that I haven’t told anyone else,” he says, suddenly turning serious. “Not even Sofia.”

My chest flutters.

“I will go in and, God forbid, spend my night after a win drinking a shake, but only if you agree to share some of yourself with me, too. Not just this Pinkmas obsession. I want to know more. So what’s it going to be, Georgie?”

Chapter Eleven

I feel breathless as I stare up at him.

Beckham wants more from me.

I swallow nervously. I don’t know how much he wants to know, and it scares me to be so open and vulnerable with a man I might never see again after New Year’s Day. Especially Beckham, who is not interested in relationships or seriousness.

Yet when I gaze up into those doe eyes of his, I see something different shining back at them. They aren’t playful or mischievous.

They’re earnest.

Serious.

About me.

Or is it to help create a story that we can sell? That has to be what it is.

Beckham gets the assignment.

Perhaps it will be easier to be vulnerable when there’s nothing at stake,I think. I can share with Beckham and then I can walk away from this in a little more than a month with no emotional entanglements to deal with.

Maybe this will be good for me, too.

“I can do that,” I say finally.

“You hesitated. Why?” Beckham asks, stepping aside so some people can enter the café while we stand outside of it.

I exhale. “Sharing can be scary. I haven’t had to do it in a long time.”

“How come?” he asks softly.

“Nobody has wanted to know,” I confess, my voice nearly a whisper.

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