Page 1 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

Three jars.

I try to fight the wave of discouragement that washes over me as I gaze at my display table, filled with the hand-painted Mason jars I sell. The space alone at this Christmas craft fair cost me a hundred and fifty dollars. It’s nearly two o’clock, and I’ve sold a half-pint jar for fifteen dollars, a pint jar for twenty-four, and one of my seasonal snowflake jars for twenty-six dollars.

I have two hours to make eighty-five dollars just to recoup the table fee for my business, Georgie’s Jars. I’ve named the business after myself—Georgie Goodwin—because it’s my pride and joy, and I’ve given the past year of my life to making it a success.

If only believing in having a successful business could somehow make it true.

I would bite my lip in worry, but that would completely get the red lipstick I’m wearing all over my teeth. Another thing I do when I’m anxious is braid my honey-blonde hair, but I’ve already braided it, and it’s in beautiful twists around my head. Taking it down and rebraiding it in the middle of a craft fair would be kind of weird.

Unless it looked like I was doing a tutorial and it gathered more people around my table. I have a superpower of being able to perfectly braid my hair anywhere, anytime, without a mirror. Even while walking I can do it. It fascinates people, and I’ve even been stopped to ask how I do it.

Hmm. That idea might have some merit.

I put that aside for now—if I get truly desperate in the next few hours, I might consider it. Let’s see. What else can I do? Wring my hands? Not exactly appealing to shoppers walking up, listening to a just-defrosted Mariah Carey belting out “All I Want for Christmas is You” over the sound system. I could pace, but the effect on potential customers is the same as wringing my hands.

I’m a Swiftie. What Taylor song should I play in my head to encourage me to keep pursuing my entrepreneurial dreams?

“Change.” I’ll go with “Change.”

It’s November. I told myself I had until the end of December to live out my artistic dream of painting and selling my Mason jars. It will mark one year since I launched my business, and I vowed if I don’t make a profit, I’ll get a day job and go back to having this as a hobby.

Which breaks my heart. I love painting these jars so much. When I figured out a creative way to paint Mason jars with unique colors and a rustic farmhouse look, I was so excited because there’s nothing quite like them on the market. The last two years of college, I worked two jobs and saved all my money so I could give myself a year to make a go of my business.

And my year is almost up. My savings are dwindling.

I force a smile on my face and once again resist the urge to bite my lip.

More people pass by my aisle. I hope they’ll stop by my booth and take a look at all the colored jars I have on display.

Buzz!

I glance down at my phone and see I have a text from my twin sister, Ella:

Need me to swing by and buy some jars? Start loudly talking about your unique technique and how I have them all over my home as everything from an LED candleholder to a makeup brush holder?

I smile. I love Ella so much. She’s my biggest fan. I text her back:

Stand back. I’ve sold THREE.

Ella Bella is typing …

Bastards. You should have sold thirty by now. I’ll swing by.

I shoot her a quick text:

No, you will not. It’s your Saturday. Enjoy it. I’ll be pissed if you show up, Ella.

Ella Bella is typing …

Do you know how to be pissed off, Georgie? You’re Ms. Sunshine. I mean, you have had our apartment decorated for PINKMAS since November 1. You’re way too sweet to be pissed.

Ella has me there. I am, by nature, a cheerful person. Even my deflating savings account has only just started to discourage me.

Ella Bella is typing …

I mean, you drink coffee out of a gingerbread man mug. And if he’s dirty, you use a Santa mug with a pink hat. You put sprinkles on whipped cream. Pissed? That word doesn’t even belong in your vocabulary.

I glance up, pleased to see two elderly women and two younger women approaching my table. I smile warmly at them as they pause to peruse my items.

“Oh, what is this? I’ve never seen anything like this before,” a pretty, curvy brunette says. She turns to the girl next to her. “Have you, Abby?”

The other girl, who is tall and willowy, shakes her head no. Hmm. They might be sisters. They both have the same shade of brown hair and the same color of eyes.

“These are my hand-painted Mason jars, and the interior is painted, too,” I explain, smiling at them. The two elderly women step forward, and my gaze can’t help but go to the T-shirt the one woman is wearing.

It says, “Is That a Candy Cane in Your Pocket?” with two big glitter candy canes across the front.

I read it again to make sure I’m not crazy.

I’m not.

“I love your shirt,” I say, grinning at her.

Her eyes light up. “Do you?”

“I do.”

“You are obviously a fun woman.”

“And a talented one,” the shorter of the two younger women adds.

“Says the woman who set her napkin on fire during a decoupage project last month,” the taller girl says.

“Oh, that was a freak accident, would you stop?” she says. Then she looks over the jars and stops at the display where I have an LED candle in one. “Oh, how clever is that?”

“And you can’t set fire with it!” the taller girl says. “You should buy it!”

“I think I will,” the other girl says, continuing to look over my jars. “I like these turquoise ones for the living room.”

“Those are pretty” the other elderly woman says. That would be the one not wearing a shirt referring to candy canes in pockets.

“Can you do custom orders?” the naughty T-shirt wearer asks.

I smile. “Yes, I’d be happy to if it’s something I can do. Is there something you have in mind?”

A wicked glint appears in her eyes. I truly hope she doesn’t ask me to do a jar with an embossed penis or something.

“Can you paint a big jar like a candy cane?”

The other elderly woman looks sharply at her. “Where are you going with this?”

“I’m going to put candy canes in it, of course, then I’ll hang a sign on it that says, ‘It’s Not Going to Lick Itself.’”

Oh my God.

The younger women look like they want to dive under the table, the other older woman sighs heavily, and the naughty T-shirt wearer looks straight at me and grins wickedly.

“I’d be happy to make that for you,” I manage to say without laughing.

“Grandma. PUBLIC,” the taller young woman says.

So the naughty T-shirt woman is their grandma. That’s amazing.

I think of my two grandmothers, and I can’t see either one of them being like this grandma.

I move over to my laptop and take her custom order. The woman who set a napkin on fire buys three jars of different sizes, too. By the time they leave with their purchases, I’ve closed the gap to nearly breaking even.

Today is the day, I think with optimism. It’s going to be the start of big changes.

Thank you, T. Swift, for my theme and music inspiration today.

The rest of the show goes by slowly. The woman next to me is arguing with her husband—they sell jewelry, and he wants to pack up and go home and she doesn’t—and I’m sure that’s not helping people want to stop and linger by my table.

“I’m telling you, Jess, this is a waste of time. Nobody is buying your shit!” he snaps.

“Nobody is buying my shit because you are hovering over the table like the grumpy pain in the ass you are!” she retorts.

And there go any customers for the rest of the day.

As I watch them, I can’t imagine being married to someone who obviously doesn’t support my passion and speaks to me so awfully in public.

See, this is why I wait. I don’t want to settle. I want to find a man who is perfect for me.

I think about this. Based on my previous dating experiences, finding him might be as elusive as finding customers for my jars.

Another woman comes down the aisle, pushing twin girls in a double stroller. I love seeing little girl twins. It reminds me so much of the childhood I had with Ella. But unlike us, these little girls are identical twins with chocolate-brown hair. Their hairstyle is even the same—both of them have space buns.

My heart melts. So adorable.

The woman comes over to my table and begins looking at my jars.

“Hello, welcome to Georgie’s Jars,” I say, smiling warmly at her. “These are hand-painted Mason jars—even the inside is painted. They’re designed to look rustic.”

“Ooh,” she says, picking up a jar for closer inspection.

“That’s my personal favorite,” I say cheerfully. “It’s for Pinkmas, and it even has a gingerbread man on it.”

The woman stops and looks at me, almost as if she’s seeing me for the first time. Her eyes flicker over me with interest. “You like a pink Christmas?” she asks.

“Pink!” one of the little girls declares before putting some Goldfish crackers in her mouth.

“I love pink, too,” I say to the girl, who can’t be more than two or three. Then I turn back to their mother. “I think a pink Christmas is magical. Full of sweetness and goodness, you know. I’m doing a Pinkmas theme in my apartment—I love Christmas —and I’m combining pink with gingerbread men and women in my kitchen. Gingerbread evokes so many warm memories. It’s sweet with spice. Comforting. Cute. The whole pink-with-gingerbread concept brings me such joy.”

Her dark brows go into a V shape as she continues to study me. I wonder if I’ve babbled too much.

“That’s it!” she suddenly says, her face lighting up. “I know who you remind me of!”

“Oh?” I ask, smiling at her. “Someone good, I hope.”

“Yes! You’re like a character out of Frozen . The braids of Elsa, but you’re like Anna.”

I grin at her. “Oh, you think so? That’s a great compliment, thank you. You’ve made my day. I do love that movie.”

“Elsa!” the other twin says. “I want to watch Elsa!”

“Yes, darling, we’ll do that tonight, but hold on, Mommy is working.”

Working?

“So you’re an artist—you do rustic jars and own this business, yes?” she asks.

I nod. “Yes, I do. This business is my passion.”

“Perfect!” she says, her whole face lighting up. “And you live in Miami?”

Now this is getting weird. “Um, yes.”

“You love pink and Christmas and gingerbread,” she continues. “And Frozen . Tell me. Do you ever sing the songs to yourself?”

It’s official. This conversation IS weird.

“Erm … yes. Along with Christmas songs.”

“Even better!”

What is even happening right now?

“I have a proposition for you, and it’s going to sound crazy. But are you dating anyone?”

I stare blankly at her. “What?”

“You’re absolutely perfect, and my brother needs you. I’ve been looking, and talking to you right now, I know you’re the one.”

“The one for what?” I ask, feeling fearful.

“My brother is Beckham Bailey,” she says. “He plays for the Miami Manatees as of last week. He needs a girlfriend. But more to the point, I think he needs you. ”