Page 4 of Miami Ice

“You love pink and Christmas and gingerbread,” she continues. “AndFrozen. 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 needsyou.”

Chapter Two

Oh my God.

This woman is nutters.

I keep a smile plastered on my face, but I’m alarmed. I wish I had a panic button installed under my table so security could come help me.

Wait. I saw the security guard. He was about seventy and asleep at his desk when I walked by to go to the restroom earlier.

Never mind. I’m on my own.

The woman winces. “Oh no, I’ve scared you to death,” she says, biting her lip. “Please, I promise I’m not wheels-off. Will you allow me to explain my thoughts better? And if you aren’t interested, I will completely disappear and I will never bother you again, outside of buying jars because these are freaking amazing.

“I’m Sofia Bailey West,” she continues, extending her hand to me. “Sister to Beckham Bailey.”

I shake her hand. Ah. We’re back to the hockey player who needs me. She made it sound very dramatic. Needs me to do what? Help him save the world? Discover the hidden meaning in a map and locate a secret treasure? Defuse a bomb that will implode the Earth, with us yelling over which wire to cut and making the final decision with a second on the red timer?

Hmm. And I’m calling her nutters. I should rethink that.

But regardless of the reason why this hockey player needs me, I have no clue who this Beckham Bailey is.

Ooh. I wonder if he was named after David Beckham. Now that man is hot and aging like a very good wine.

I couldn’t be that lucky.

“Let me show you,” Sofia says as she begins to tap icons on her phone. Soon she is scrolling and then she stops. “Ah! Here we are!”

She turns the phone toward me, and she’s there, holding one of her twins, the man I assume to be her husband holding the other, with a very attractive man in the middle, wearing a hockey jersey and smiling for the camera.

I study him closely. Okay, he’s not David Beckham, but he’s good-looking. I can see that straightaway. He’s got a head full of thick chocolate-brown hair. Some light stubble shades his jawline. And from everything I can see in this picture, the sport of hockey hasn’t rearranged his face. He has all his teeth in this picture, and even if they aren’t all real, they look very nice.

“That’s my baby brother,” she says. “If you look at us, you can see the resemblance.”

I lift my eyes from the phone to take a moment to study Sofia. She has the same thick dark-brown hair as Beckham. Her eyes are doe-like—large and dark. I glance back at her phone and peer closer at Beckham’s face. He has the same innocent eyes, making him all the more attractive.

But something tells me Beckham is far from innocent.

Otherwise, his sister wouldn’t be approaching women at craft bazaars and, and upon sight of one selling painted jars with Elsa braids and a love of Pinkmas, declare without any other knowledge that I’m the one her brother needs as a girlfriend.

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