Page 90 of Miami Ice

I set the nutcracker to the side and frame his face with my hands, catching him by surprise. “You said everything I needed to hear, Beckham. You somehow see the real me, and you make me feel seen in a way nobody has before. Thank you for that.”

Beckham’s eyes look like liquid to me now, growing soft from my words.

Or are they blurry through my tears? Hmm.

“I shouldn’t be able to see you like this,” he says softly, staring down at me. “We’re just getting to know each other.”

“I know.”

“But I also know,” he continues, “that everything is different with you. I knew it from the moment you walked into the hotel restaurant. Then the more we talked, the more I could feel thingsabout you. Like I was meant to understand you. And you were meant to understand me. Because you see me in a way nobody outside of my family ever has.”

I nod. “I know.”

Neither of us say anything for a moment, and Mariah continues to sing in the space around us.

“So it’s a good thing we’re dating,” Beckham declares, a teasing smile playing at his mouth.

“I agree.”

He dips his head and brushes a sweet kiss on my lips. Then Beckham rises and grins at me. “Now hold my coffee, and I’ll take this creepy thing to the cart,” he says, inclining his head toward the nutcracker.

I grin as I take the coffee from his hand. “He’s not creepy. He’s fantastic.”

Beckham snorts. “You have a weird definition of fantastic.”

“Yes, Grumpy, I do, and my definition of fantastic is a life-sized pink nutcracker. He’s so fantastic, I might have to use him in my display next Saturday.”

“Are you trying to scare off customers?” he asks as he picks up the nutcracker and shifts it under his arm.

“Shut up,” I say.

Beckham puts the nutcracker into the empty cart, and I put his coffee in the cup holder.

“Would you mind pushing the cart?” I ask. “It’s hard for me to see around the nutcracker.”

Beckham puts his hands on the handle and then stops.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m in someplace called Home Joy. I’m pushing a cart with a life-sized nutcracker in it. This whole store looks like someone vomited Christmas in it and it’s nine o’clock in the morning the day after a game. What is happening to my life?”

“I bet a few months ago you couldn’t fathom this being your life,” I say as Beckham begins to push the cart.

He bursts out laughing. “Oh Christ, no.”

I giggle at that.

“But Georgie?”

I look over at him.

“I’m not mad at it,” he says softly. “In fact, I’m glad for it.”

Joy. I feel so much joy in my body right now, I can barely contain myself.

“I’m glad for it, too. Now buckle up, buttercup. You’re about to be initiated into the magic of Home Joy.”

I walk ahead of him, and I hear the deep rumble of his laugh behind me.

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