Page 46 of Miami Ice

He snorts at that.

“If that’s not it, what are you choosing?” I ask. “Eggnog?”

Now Beckham makes a face like he’s going to vomit. “Who likes eggnog? For real?”

“It’s good with cookies.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course you like it. It’s in your Pinkmas rule book, right?”

I grin at that. “No, but it’s festive.”

“I think I’m going with the gingerbread butterscotch,” Beckham says, folding his arms across his chest.

I read the description. Gingerbread ice cream, whipped cream, butterscotch drizzle, and a gingerbread cookie on top. “I think you’ve made an excellent choice.”

“If I get sick, you’re driving me home,” he teases.

We make our way down the counter. I manage to resist all the festive cupcakes and iced sugar cookies under cloches, and we place our order. I get out my wallet to pay, and Beckham looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “I asked you out.”

“Well, I know, but I don’t expect you to pay for everything all the time.” I put down my card, and I can’t get over the stunned expression on his face.

“I don’t know what to say.” Beckham stares down at me, looking confused now.

I smile up at him. “Thank you works just fine.”

“Thank you, Georgie,” he says softly.

Something in his voice makes goose bumps ripple across my skin.

A server will bring us our shakes, so we find a booth against one wall and slide into it. Beckham puts his arm up across the back, and I wonder what it would be like to sit next to him and feel that arm graze across the top of my shoulders.

“You know my rule for being here,” he says. “I get to ask you questions.”

“I’m ready,” I say confidently.

He quirks a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Go on. I’ll even answer one before the shakes arrive.”

“Why on earth are you still available, Georgie Goodwin? Because no matter how hard I look at it, I can’t figure out why.”

Chapter Twelve

I stare at Beckham, taken aback by his question. Not because he can’t believe I’m available, but because I thought the answer would be obvious to him.

“Why am I available?” I repeat.

“Yeah. How is that?”

“Doesn’t maniacal nutcrackers sum it up?” I ask. “Look at me. I’m wearing a Pinkmas sweater withnutcrackerson it. I’m obsessed with Christmas. I paint jars for a living—well, that’s a lie, I’m not making a living, I’m merely painting jars. I’m not exactly the girl a guy looks at and goes, ‘Hey now.’”

Beckham grins and cocks an eyebrow at me. “Hey now,” he says in a low, sexy voice.

We both laugh.

Then he clears his throat. “The Christmas stuff could be a dealbreaker for a lot of guys, I suppose, if they’re complete jackwagons.”

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