Page 30 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

I wake up a few minutes before my alarm is supposed to go off.

At four-thirty in the morning. UGH.

I’m so tired. I’m glad I made the decision to pack my van up for the Holly Jolly Christmas Bazaar earlier this week, so I’m ready to go on that front. I took an Uber from Beckham’s house to the game, so my van is here in the driveway, awaiting me.

I just have to find a way to wake up.

I turn off the alarm on my phone, not wanting to disturb Beckham. I look over at him. He’s sprawled on his stomach, the sheets tangled around his hips, and one of his arms is draped across me. His dark brown locks are sticking up, and his lips are slightly parted as he breathes in and out. Minnie is once again perched at the top of his pillow, and the two of them together are the cutest thing. She’s never far from him when he’s home, and I love that.

I take a few minutes to watch him, and I resist the urge to reach over and smooth his hair. Affection fills me, and I swear I could spend the next hour here, just watching him sleep.

But I know he needs his rest.

Especially after having some incredible sex last night.

I have to bite my tongue to hold back laughter. I tried to be all sexy with my condensed milk, dipping my finger in it and putting it to his lips. But when Beckham sucked on it, the look of disgust on his face had me doubled over in hysterics. I have committed to memory what he told me last night.

“You know I love the idea of sucking anything off your body, Cupcake. But if it’s going to be that, I’m going to throw up.”

Luckily, I had a solution for that. I unbuttoned his dress shirt and got him out of it, pushed him back toward the kitchen table, and demanded he lie down on it. Beckham complied. Then I climbed on top of him, straddling him, and drizzled some of that liquid gold across his abs and licked it off him.

I still can’t believe I did that. WHO AM I?

A satisfied smile passes over my lips.

I’m a woman who enjoyed some hot sex by turning Beckham into a quivering pleading mess before he took me right there on the table.

And he took me again when we were in the shower, cleaning up our condensed milk experiment.

I’m definitely tired, but I have ZERO regrets over staying up last night.

I frown. But I do have to get out of this bed, and that I do regret. I like being here with Beckham. Feeling his strong arm draped protectively across my body. Hearing the even sound of his breathing. Inhaling the scent of soap on his skin.

But I’ll have to linger in this space another time. I gently lift his arm, and as soon as I move it, he stirs, and his eyes flutter open. “Stay,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.

I smile at him. “I wish I could. But I have to get ready to go to the show.”

He frowns. Between that frown and his messed-up hair, I have a glimpse of what Beckham must have looked like as a little boy.

S’cute, I think, my heart warming.

I prop myself up and brush a kiss upon his forehead. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you later.”

Beckham grabs my wrist, tugging me toward him. His other hand snakes up to the back of my head, drawing me close, and then his mouth is on mine as he gives me a long, lingering kiss.

Mmm.

He breaks the kiss. “I can get up with you.”

“No, please don’t. You have practice later. You need to sleep.”

He scowls.

I grin. “Go back to sleep, Grumpy. I’ll see you when you come visit me at the show. And while I love the fact that you are willing to get up with me at four-thirty in the morning, I think I love the fact that you are willing to show up at something called the Holly Jolly Christmas Bazaar more . ”

Now he really scowls.

I giggle and give him one more kiss. “I can’t tell if that scowl is for the hour or the name of the show.”

“Both,” Beckham declares.

I laugh, and he smiles.

“Sleep,” I insist. “And I’ll see you later.”

He drops his hand from my wrist, and I slip out of bed. I retrieve the clothing I’d laid out on the dresser and go into the bathroom to change. I have to say, one advantage to the late-night shower is the fact that I don’t have to take one this morning. I flip on the lights, and as soon as I see my reflection, I nearly groan.

The dark shadows under my eyes are HIDEOUS.

Thank goodness I’m a believer in undereye brightener and have some in my makeup bag. Because I’m in desperate need of it this morning.

I go about my morning routine, and after I’ve washed my face, I change into my outfit for the show: jeans, leopard-print sneakers, and a pale pink T-shirt with a vintage Santa on it—wearing a pink Santa hat instead of a red one.

Beckham will love it, I think with a grin.

I put on my makeup, and then I braid my hair, sweeping it up around my head. Then I reach for my newest accessory—Beckham’s friendship bracelet—and slide it over my wrist. I trace my fingers over it, and all the feelings run through me again as I remember him giving it to me.

Underneath that grumpy exterior is a man with a big heart.

And right now, that heart belongs to me.

I am filled with love. Gratitude. Optimism. All for my future. I see big things for Georgie’s Jars now that I’m getting some publicity.

I also see a brilliant future that involves Beckham, too.

With all that happiness in my heart, I go downstairs to get something to eat before starting what is going to be an incredible day.

* * *

This has been the worst show setup EVER.

I try to stay focused as I put my branded tablecloth over one of my folding tables. It’s not even eight o’clock, and my patience is already hanging on by a thread.

The woman behind me—she is selling handmade wooden signs—is ignoring the tape markings on the floor that show where her space ends and mine begins. When I politely pointed out to her that her table was in my space, she glared at me, cussed me out, and moved her table back.

By about an inch.

I can still barely pass through, and I’m pissed about it, but I know if I tell her she’s still not out of my zone she’ll go ballistic on me. I turn over my shoulder and look at her. She’s putting on some lipstick, and she abruptly turns and looks at me.

Then flips me off.

My mouth falls open. This woman is seriously flipping me off? At the Holly Jolly Christmas Bazaar, of all places?

I turn back around—deciding if I did something like smile at her I’ll escalate the situation, and we are stuck together all day—and squeeze my way out from behind my table, coming around the front and making sure my tablecloth is perfectly straight. In the center of it is my branded “GEORGIE’S JARS” logo, and I’m pleased with the way it looks.

As I’m about to go back and wedge my way back behind my tables, the people to the right of me—a couple selling handmade soap—begin arguing for what seems like the five thousandth time since we all arrived at six-thirty this morning.

“No! No, Adam, I told you for the hundredth time I don’t want that there! Do you even listen?” the woman yells at him.

“I think everyone is listening because you are acting like a raving bitch!” he retorts.

Suddenly the music comes on overhead, and “Happy Holidays” begins blaring through the speakers.

I hear laughter from the table to my left and look over to see a woman in her twenties with long dark brown hair and glasses. I move a bit closer to her.

“Are you laughing at what I think you’re laughing at?” I ask quietly.

“The irony of hearing ‘Happy Holidays’ while listening to those two go at it? Yes. I am,” she says. “I’m Scooter, by the way. And yes, it’s the name I go by. It’s a nickname given to me by my grandfather, and I use it even though I’m twenty-five.”

“I love that story. I’m Georgie.”

“I love your jars,” Scooter says, tucking a lock of her dark hair behind one ear. “They are so unique!”

“I can say the same about your backpacks,” I say, admiring the collection of backpack purses she has created.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling cheerfully. “I love sewing them, and the fact that I can make money selling them is a blessing.”

We chat for a bit more before we each go back to our tables. The first thing I have to do now is unpack my displays. Setting up is so much more than putting jars on the table. I have everything arranged a specific way to catch the eye of a consumer. I have some elevated for height. Others are used as holders, say filled with wooden spoons or makeup brushes, to show different ways to use the jars. Right now, I’m pushing the holiday collection colors—including Pinkmas—and the neutrals. I begin unpacking the jars next, carefully arranging them so they look their very best.

I pause halfway through to take a sip of my coffee. It’s been the boost I needed this morning, and I have no regrets about filling my pink candy-cane tumbler to maximum capacity before I left Beckham’s place. I do regret, however, that it’s not peppermint or sugar cookie flavored, because that would track for the day, but I can get one of those after dinner.

“I HATE YOU!”

I glance over at the table to the right. The happy couple is apparently about to get a whole lot happier.

“Well, then it’s a match made in heaven, Brittany, because I HATE YOU, TOO!” the husband snaps back.

Right on cue, “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” begins playing.

I bite my lip to keep from going into hysterical laughter.

It’s going to be an interesting day.

* * *

By lunchtime, I can’t believe the kind of day I’m having.

Sales have been fantastic . The bazaar is crammed full of shoppers—I haven’t seen foot traffic like this in … practically forever. Everyone is in a festive mood, sipping coffee and listening to Christmas music as they shop, and for once, these shoppers want my jars. I’ve even taken some custom orders for jars that I don’t have in stock, and one woman bought fifteen! She’s going to give them away to all her friends as Christmas gifts.

I’ve had a steady stream of traffic to my table, and if people weren’t buying, they were taking my card. Or taking pictures of my table so they could look up my items later. I’m hopeful that will lead to more sales online.

Adam and Brittany—the very unhappy couple next to me—have shut up since the show opened and are now oh-so-happy together. My neighbor behind me is sweet and cheerful to everyone who comes up to her booth, which makes me want to roll my eyes.

Things finally start to slow down at my table, and I’m about to sneak in a few bites of one of the snacks I’ve brought, as it’s too hard to work and eat a lunch when you’re one person working a booth. I retrieve a packet of nuts from my tote bag and am tossing some into my mouth when suddenly I see Beckham walking through the crowd.

Happiness surges through me as I watch him. He’s got his backward baseball cap on again, and he’s wearing athletic shorts, flip-flops, and a heather-gray Miami Manatees T-shirt. I furrow my brow. Why is he wearing that? That T-shirt is like a big arrow pointing attention to himself. Like, Hey, it’s me, Beckham Bailey of the Miami Manatees!

His eyes are scanning the crowd, looking for me. I stick my hand up in a wave, and when he spots me, a big smile lights up his face. Beckham makes his way toward my table, but when he’s a few feet from it, he stops and takes in my display. I can see his eyes moving over everything, from the tablecloths that have a wood print on them, to my logo, to the carefully arranged displays of Mason jars.

Only after he has looked at everything does he come closer. “Georgie, I know I’ve seen this on your Connectivity page, but what you have here is amazing. Photos don’t do it justice. This looks so good.”

Pride swells within my chest, but before I can thank him, he leans across the table, cradles the back of my head with his hand, and drops a sweet kiss on my lips.

“Are you eating cashews?” he asks.

My cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Sorry, yes, that’s my lunch. I should have warned you before you kissed me.”

He smiles mischievously at me. “That wouldn’t have stopped me.” Then his expression goes serious. “That’s not much of a lunch.”

“It’s too hard to eat when you have people coming up to your booth. And I don’t want to be found eating when someone asks questions.”

He makes a face. I can tell protective Beckham doesn’t like this strategy.

“I’ll eat a big dinner tonight,” I assure him.

He still doesn’t look happy.

“Beckham, it’s one afternoon, I’m fine, I promise.”

That elicits a scowl.

“Stop it,” I say, laughing. “I’m fine. And thank you for what you said about my jars. That means a lot to me.”

“I mean it. It’s incredible. Not only the jars you paint, but all of this,” he says, waving his hand in front of the table. “The display, the branding, everything. It’s on point.”

I can’t contain the smile that is spreading across my face. Beckham is proud of me, just as proud of me as I was of him last night at his game.

“How have sales been?” he asks.

“Good,” I say happily. “I even had one woman purchase fifteen jars!”

“That’s excellent!”

My heart flips inside my chest. Beckham is just as excited as I am over my sales, and that means more to me than he could ever know.

“Well, I’m here to go to work,” Beckham says. “I’m going to post your booth, and a pic of me in front of your jars, on my page and Story Share. And I’ll hang out with you and draw attention to your business.”

“Is that why you’re wearing a Manatees shirt?” I ask.

He grins. “Yes.”

Happiness rushes through me I think of how he thought about what to wear to the show.

All in an effort to support me.

Beckham’s gaze shifts to my Santa shirt and he scowls. “Oh God, you’ve ruined Santa. A pink hat?”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “Why do you care what color hat Santa is wearing? You think he’s creepy and weird,” I say, reminding him of his own declaration.

His brows draw together in a V. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Holly Jolly Christmas” begins blaring overhead, and Beckham screws up his face in disgust.

“Now, Grumpy, you’re going to have to put your imaginary pink Santa cap on your head and embrace the festive spirit if you’re going to work the Holly Jolly Christmas Bazaar.”

“Talk about a sentence I never thought I’d hear in my lifetime,” Beckham teases.

I grin. “But thank you. I appreciate you wanting to help.”

“Of course I want to help,” he says, his eyes growing soft. “I want everyone to know how talented you are. And I want you to have all the success you deserve.”

Big feelings rise to the surface once again as I see the sincerity in his eyes. “Thank you,” I say softly.

“No need to thank me. This is all you. I’m merely giving you exposure.” Beckham clears his throat. “Let me take some pictures.”

I nod. I watch as he takes pictures of my booth, then some selfies in front of it. I have some more customers walk up, and as I answer their questions about jars, Beckham stands off to the side and begins typing on his phone. Soon after, I hear my phone vibrate on the table.

After the customers walk away, I pick up my phone and see that I’m tagged in both a Connectivity post and a Connectivity Story Share. I tap open the post first, and it’s a shot of Beckham in front of all my jars, grinning broadly for the camera. I read the text:

My girlfriend is a crazy talented artist and I’m so proud of her. Come see us today at the Holly Jolly Christmas Bazaar and check out @GeorgiesJars

I grow warm with happiness. He also did a Connectivity Story Share where he’s talking about the jars, how proud he is of me, and that he’ll be here with me if anyone wants to come by and say hello.

I watch as some fans recognize him. He poses for a selfie, then points over to my jars and then me. “Say hi, Georgie!” he calls out.

“Hello!” I wave back.

The people come over and begin looking at the jars, and soon more fans are surrounding him. I can hear him singing my praises about why he’s here. A crowd is now streaming over to Beckham, who is posing for pics and signing stuff, and in turn, my table is surrounded by people looking at my jars.

A woman hands me two pink ones that she wants to purchase, and I process her sale. Beckham is still working the crowd and sending them over to my table. After I finish wrapping her purchase, another customer hands me a jar.

I can’t contain the joy in my heart. Everything for Georgie’s Jars has changed within the past few days. First, because of Becca. And now because of Beckham.

I steal a glance at him. Here he is, fresh from practice, signing autographs. He’s willing to stay here until the show closes at five-thirty, even though he has to fly out tomorrow for a road trip.

He’s doing it because he believes in Georgie’s Jars.

And because he believes in me.

“Labyrinth.”

This song jumps to the forefront of my mental Swiftie soundtrack, a song about falling in love, and I know I’m falling in love with this man already.

But there’s no “uh-oh” about it.

I know people could ask how this is possible. I’m still getting to know Beckham. But in other ways, I feel as if my heart has known his for so much longer. Nothing has ever felt as right as being with Beckham has.

My heart knows this is the man I’m meant to fall in love with.

And I hope Beckham has the same big feelings for me, too.