Page 1 of Miami Ice

Chapter One

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.

---