Page 89 of Miami Ice

I spring into action, abandoning the cart and heading over to the display as Mariah Carey belts out, “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

“Georgie?”

I ignore Beckham as I spy another woman heading toward the nutcracker from the other side of the aisle. I know this is a big find, and I bet she wants it, too.

I do what I need to do. I kick in the afterburners and run. I reach the nutcracker before she does, and without even examining him to make sure he’s perfect, I grab him, hugging him to me as if he were Beckham and I was hugging him goodbye at the door last night.

The woman stops dead in her tracks. Her mouth turns down in a frown, and a flicker of annoyance lights in her eyes. “I was going to get that,” she snaps, putting her hands on her hips.

I open my mouth. I got to the nutcracker a full five feet before she did, am I supposed to be sorry about that?

Yet I’m about to utter those very words when I hear Beckham’s voice from behind.

“Well, she was going to get it, too, and she happened to get there first. I don’t think you’d be so mad at it if you had reached the nutcracker first.”

I turn around, and Beckham has moved behind me, folding his inked arms across his chest, as if daring the woman to argue with him.

She shoots daggers at him. “Running for a nutcracker is ridiculous.”

“I won’t argue that, but don’t be mad at her for getting to it first. That’s just stupid.”

Then Beckham casually takes a swig of his coffee, as if he could go round and round with her all morning if that’s what this woman wanted to do.

“You two are assholes!” she spits.

“Assholes, maybe, but we’re assholes with a life-sized maniacal nutcracker and that’s what you’re really irritated about,” Beckham says cheerfully.

She gives us both a death stare before spinning on her heel and walking off.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Beckham begins to laugh. “Man, I had no idea Home Joy was as ripe for a turnup as a hockey rink. And over a maniacal nutcracker. Who knew?”

I’m about to respond but he continues. “Here, hold my coffee and I’ll carry this back to the cart for you,” he says, extending his cup to me.

I don’t move for a moment. “You’re brilliant,” I say in awe. “You had a comeback for everything! I was actually going to tell her I was sorry.”

Beckham’s eyes widen. “Georgie. Why would you say you’re sorry?”

“I don’t know. I felt like I should apologize when she got mad.”

“Oh hell no. You didn’t cheat her out of anything. You didn’t do anything wrong to get this nutcracker. You beat her to it, and it’s rightfully yours if you want it. That would be like me winning a puck and then turning around to the opposing player and apologizing for it. There’s no apology needed here. None.”

“I know,” I admit, feeling embarrassed and meek at the same time. “I’ve just found it easier to say I was sorry. Just to make the other person feel better or to make the awkward situation end. I’ve been doing that for as long as I can remember.”

Beckham puts his index finger under my chin, gently tilting my face up toward him. “I think you do it because you don’t like conflict. My guess is it’s because of how you grew up. You were raised in a house where all you knew was conflict and you just wanted it to end. But sweetheart, there’s always going to be conflict in life. You can’t avoid it, hide it, or run from it. Butthose moments don’t last forever. And as hard as it is to stand up for yourself, there’s something very rewarding about working through that uncomfortable feeling and not backing down. It will end. And when you find yourself on the other side of it? You’re going to not only know you did the right thing, but you’re also going to feel way better than if you keep apologizing for things that aren’t your fault.”

I lose my breath as I gaze through the fringes of his long, dark lashes to those deep eyes of his, the ones shining sincerely back at me.

This man sees me. He sees down to my very soul in a way even my own twin never has.

And even though he’s found the imperfect part of me, he doesn’t care.

GAH, I think I want to cry.

“Georgie?” Beckham asks softly, his brow now creased in concern.

“You’re going to make me cry in Home Joy,” I say, my voice wobbling.

Now he looks panicked. “Shit, what did I say?”

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