Page 43 of Miami Ice

A look of surprise passes over his face. “You’re telling the truth.”

I don’t say anything.

“What kind of douchebags have you been going out with?” he asks bluntly.

I howl with laughter. “Beckham!”

Suddenly he looks embarrassed. He rubs his hand over his face and grimaces. “Sorry for the language. You can tell I’m shit at this.”

“No, I don’t mind the language, but I can’t believe you think that.”

“I know because I was like that. It’s kind of embarrassing to think I was the kind of dou—erm, guy who did the same thing. I was like that. But I can’t fathom anyone doing it to you, Georgie.”

My heart zeroes in on one word.

Was.

Iwaslike that.

Suddenly my heart ping-pongs around my chest. Could I be the reason for the word “was”?

GEORGIE. STOP IT.

I blink, trying to get my head back on track. And I need to do my best to put my head in charge of my heart and not allow it to think such stupid thoughts.

Beckham is still watching my face, and then he quickly clears his throat. “Come on, let’s go inside and get something nauseatingly festive to drink,” he says, pulling open the door for me.

“They will have pumpkin, white-chocolate cranberry, or a pecan pie shake if you don’t care to go all in on Christmas just yet,” I tell him as I step inside.

“I’m alarmed you have the seasonal flavors on automatic recall,” he quips, following behind me.

“Don’t talk, Beckham, I’m having a moment,” I tease.

“A moment?”

I gaze up at him, smiling. “Yes. Take it in. Feel how cold it is. You can smell the ice cream in the air, that wonderful scent of sugar and vanilla and cream. And look!” I say excitedly, pointing overhead to the ceiling. “It’s decorated for Christmas!”

And it is. The shake café has multicolored lights strung all across the ceiling, along with tinsel, and decorations hang down from shining red and silver ribbons.

I look at Beckham, expecting to find him looking overhead at the decor, but instead I find he’s staring at me. “This really is a moment for you, isn’t it?” he asks, mystified.

“It’s magic. It’s in a shake shop, but it’s still magic. I know that’s a phrase that will make you want to throw up, but I feel it.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t want to throw up. Your eyes lit up as soon as you started talking about it, Georgie. It’s coming from your heart.”

I feel my lips part in shock. His words are sincere.

And they’re beautiful.

He clears his throat. “Of course, I should have known you’d find magic—they had the good sense to string up multicolored lights,” he says, shifting his gaze to the ceiling, his mouth curving up in a teasing smile.

Now Beckham has put us back on regular footing, and for my own safety, I grab on to it. “Come on, let’s decide what to get,” I say, walking toward the counter. “This bit is hard for me, because all their shakes are good.”

“Georgie. You can’t like all of them,” he insists, dodging the tables scattered about the café.

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