Page 77 of Miami Ice

I try to ignore how my heart is dancing inside my chest as I reply:

Pizza sounds good. I’ll be ready.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

Great. I’ll text you when I land. Be prepared to not only explain a pizza code of ethics, but to back up your qualifications for a good pizza. Also, we need to dive deeper on this. Like do you eat the crust?

I grin and message him back:

Why would I waste a perfectly good crust by not eating it?

Beckham Bailey is typing …

Glad to see you take the crust like a GOOD GIRL, Cupcake.

Oh my God. I dissolve into hysterical laughter.

And I have a feeling, in an arena in Orlando, Beckham might be laughing, too.

* * *

“All right. I’ve been dying to know. What is the pizza code of ethics?” Beckham asks as soon as he slides behind the wheel of his Bronco.

I had hours to come up with this code of ethics since he asked me to grab a slice with him, and I think I’ve done an acceptable job of compiling a witty answer.

Which I totally had memorized until I opened the door to find Beckham standing before me in sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a backward Miami Manatees baseball hat.

Oh, and the drawstrings? FREAKING UNTIED.

Apparently when the Manatees are coming home from a road trip, they don’t have to wear their suits on the flight home. And I have to say, casual Becks is just as hot as suit Becks.

“Georgie?”

I blink. “Oh yes, my pizza code of ethics,” I say, willing myself to focus on that rather than the scent of his cologne. I easily detect that familiar citrus and spice scent lingering on his skin, and God help me, that sensual scent alone is enough to make me forget how to speak, let alone recite my carefully constructed pizza code of ethics.

“Yes. I’ve been dying to know what that even means,” Becks says, grinning as he starts his SUV. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Miami Beach. I’ll pull up the address for you, hold please.”

I get the address in Google and give it to Beckham, who puts it into his navigation system. As he eases into traffic, I go back to his question.

“You see, I think there should be a code of ethics for pizza. Principles that will provide a pizza with integrity.”

“But is that really aprinciple?And how does a pizza have integrity? That would mean the pizza has morals. What’s a pizza moral?”

He’s being so genuine and I’m being so ridiculous, all I can do is laugh.

“What?” he asks, a playful smile curving up at the corners of his mouth.

“I said the pizza-ethics thing when I was texting because it sounded cool, but now I see it makes absolutely no freaking sense.”

Beckham grins, and my pulse quickens in response.

“I think what you want to tell me are your touchstones of a good pizza experience,” he says as he turns left onto another street.

“How did you come up with that?” I ask, impressed.

He shoots me a grumpy look. “Believe me, I’ve heard a lot of word salad like that in team meetings. Words like ‘touchstone,’ and ‘pillars,’ blah blah blah.”

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