Page 51 of Miami Ice

I said yes because I wanted to spend time with him.

Which is so, so dangerous.

I set down my pink mug adorned with Christmas trees on the countertop and swallow hard. I enjoyed myself far too much when we had shakes last night. Beckham is revealing these different pieces of himself to me, and I like the person he’s showing me.

He’s got a wicked sense of humor. He’s fun. Beckham makes me laugh, and I know I can make him laugh, too.

But it’s so much more than that.

Beckham listens to what I say. I know because he’s made observations on things I’ve said and asked about them. It struck me that he doesn’t have to spend extra time with me or care to listen, let alone to ask questions, for our arrangement.

But he does. More so than any man I’ve dated in the past.

He’s also been vulnerable, sharing things about himself that he hasn’t told anyone else. That means so much to me. That I’m the person he’s chosen to reveal the not-so-nice parts of himself to—for some reason, he’s decided to trust me with them.

While Beckham wears this grumpy exterior on the outside, on the inside, I’m finding a completely different man.

That is so hot.

Not to mention the fact that he’s a bad boy who, so far, is showing me he has a really good side, too?

HOT. HOT. HOT. HOT.

Hot squared to pi or whatever math formula you want to use.

And I’m in trouble.

The Swiftie soundtrack returns to “I Knew You Were Trouble” in my head, and I furrow my brow, trying to force a different mental song selection. “Christmas Tree Farm” is a good choice.

The lyrics to “I Knew You Were Trouble” stay put.

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

I’m in so much trouble. Not because I’ve shared my own vulnerabilities with Beckham. Not because I laughed so hard on our date last night, I actually sucked some of my milkshake up my nose.

I’m in trouble because right now, I’ve got a million butterflies as I think of Beckham coming to pick me up. I’m excited to see a house he might buy, and I’m thrilled that he wants my opinion on such a big decision.

And he asked if he can spend Thanksgiving with me.

So he can get to know me better.

I know this is for realism on his end as far as our arrangement goes, but why did I feel like it could be more than that?

I close my eyes and shake my head, as if that can force all of these thoughts from it.

What’s happened to me? A week ago, I was fine. Okay, so I had the whole sagging business hanging over me, but I wasn’t standing around my kitchen getting giddy over the prospect of spending time with a man.

“Blank Space” suddenly plays on the mental soundtrack.

And I don’t even need a second to write Beckham Bailey in that spot.

Buzz!

I glance down at my phone, expecting more comments in the group chat, but instead I see it’s a text from Beckham:

Parking the car. Will be checking in with your concierge in a minute. Must come up and see how Christmas has been thrown up all over your apartment.

An electric feeling sweeps over me. I turn around and call the front desk, telling them they can let Beckham up to my floor. I glance in the microwave door, checking my appearance in the glass one last time. It’s warm out this morning, seventy-seven degrees. So I’ve put on a pair of straight-legged jeans and sneakers. I have my oversized black sunglasses parked on top of my head, and my hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail today. My big leather tote is ready to go, complete with a notebook and pen so I can take notes about the home and give Beckham my complete thoughts.

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