Page 54 of Miami Ice

“Thank you.”

“Nope, that’s not good enough. I’m going to make you see it,” Beckham declares.

I’m touched by his words. Ones I never expected to hear from a hockey player with a bad reputation.

Beckham clears his throat. “As much as I hate to leave the land of Pepto Bismol Christmas—”

“What?It is not!” I cry, laughing.

“You’re even laughing as you protest.”

I immediately try to stop. He quirks a brow.

And I instantly dissolve into a fit of laughter.

“Come on, Cupcake. We’ve got a house to look at.”

I nod. I retrieve my purse, say goodbye to Winston, and then we’re out the door and headed to the elevator.

“Let’s say you do want this house and get it,” I say as Beckham punches the down button. “You still have thirty days to close on it. Are you going to live in the hotel for another month?”

“Shit no,” he says as the doors chime open. He lets me step inside the empty elevator first and follows behind me. “The hotel is driving me crazy. If I get this house, I’ll move out of the hotel and into the house I’ve rented for Sofia and Aaron. They’ll be able to go back to Atlanta because I’ll be on my way to being settled.”

“Do you feel settled?” I ask.

The doors chime open on the lobby level, and we step out. Beckham reaches up and pushes down on his baseball hat, adjusting it.

“Yeah, I think so. I’m committed to getting control of my life off the ice, and that should help me elevate my game to the next level on the ice. I’m getting used to Miami. And I know where to go if I want to order a shake that will give me an instant case of diabetes, so it’s all good.”

I playfully smack him on the arm, and he laughs. Beckham opens the door for me to go outside, and I walk through it, greeted by a breeze and warm sunshine.

“You still haven’t told me what your tattoos are,” I remind him.

He grins. “Nope.”

“You have to tell me for our origin story!” I protest as we head over to his Bronco.

“Because people are going to ask you to explain my tattoos?” he asks as he opens the passenger door for me.

I frown as I climb up into the seat. I can’t argue that point.

“Why are you being so mysterious about them?” I ask.

Beckham has his hand on the top of the door, leaning down close to me. “I think the real question is, why are you so desperate to know what they mean?” he asks, his voice low. “Do you spend a lot of time pondering my ink, Cupcake?”

I flush hot with embarrassment. He quirks a brow before rising and shutting the door.

Die. I want to die. Now Beckham probably thinks I lie awake at night thinking about his tattoos.

Which I totally do not.

I only think about them when I see him, and so far, that seems to be quite a bit.

Beckham opens the door to the driver’s side and climbs in next to me.

“I don’t think about your tattoos all the time,” I say.

He grins. “So … just some of the time.”

---