Page 138 of Miami Ice

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.

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