Page 48 of Miami Ice

Beckham’s scowl is replaced by a soft smile, and my stomach tips upside down.

“Sweet,” he says.

Hmm. Sweet as in “awesome” or “sugar?”

Or me?

“I was referring to you,” he says, popping a piece of sugar cookie into his mouth.

I feel my cheeks grow warm. I eat my piece of cookie as a distraction.

“You’re right, you know,” Beckham says after he’s finished chewing.

I poke my spoon into my glass. “About what?”

“You’re not the kind of girl I would have hit on at a Waleston college party,” he says. “And I definitely wouldn’t have hit on you in Denver. You’re serious. I was not into that. Iranfrom that. I wanted the exact opposite of you.”

I stop what I’m doing and stare at him.

“But I’ve come to a conclusion about my previous life,” he says. Then a mischievous grin lights up his face. “I was a freaking jackwagon.”

I can’t help but beam at him.

And somehow hope that it’s me helping make this change in Beckham.

I feel brave, and if he can admit these things, I can share some more of myself with him, too.

“I think I want serious because it gives me a sense of stability,” I say, pausing to lift the spoon to my lips and take a bite of the thick ice-cream concoction. “Oh!” I mumble. “This is sugar cookie goodness in a glass!”

Beckham grins at that. “Apt description.”

“After you’ve had some of yours, you have to try mine,” I insist.

He opts for the straw and drinks some of his shake. I resist laughing as he makes a face of disgust. “That,” he declares, pushing it away, “has enough sugar to bake a thousand cookies!”

“You do not know what you are missing.”

“Diabetes?”

I stick my tongue out at him, and he laughs.

“You were talking about stability,” he says.

“And you say I’m a good listener,” I tease.

“I am a good listener. At least when you speak.”

Ooh!I feel my cheeks and neck grow a bit warm, and from the way his mouth has suddenly turned up in a satisfied smile, I know he can see it.

I decide to fixate on my words and hope I’m not as red as the sprinkles on my whipped cream.

“My parents had a horrible marriage,” I say slowly, pausing to dip my spoon back into my shake and taking another bite. “They argued all the time. At home. In front of me and Ella. In public. It was always about money. Mom never wanted to spend it—she wanted to have funds at hand at all times. Dad was all about spending it and wanted us to have experiences, not regrets. He would always threaten to leave, and I lived in fear of that happening all the time. And then one day he did.”

“I’m so sorry, Georgie,” Beckham says gently. “You never should have had to grow up with that fear lingering over your head.”

“Thank you.”

“How was it after he left? If you don’t mind me asking, that is. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he assures me.

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