Page 67 of Miami Ice

I bring up “Shake It Off” on my playlist and let the music fill the air, using it almost as a sage cleansing to get negative vibes away from me.

I smile to myself. I’ll have to tell Beckham that one, he’ll think it’s funny.

Buzz!

I glance down at my phone, expecting to see more conversation in the group thread.

But it’s not.

It’s a message from Beckham.

A thrill sweeps over me when I see it. I quickly tap on it, my brain ignoring how excited I am that he has texted me.

Just stepped on the plane. How is the painting going?

I snap a picture of my work area and send it to him, accompanied by a message:

It’s been a productive morning. I’ve also done my inventory for the show, and I’ll have that grouped up and ready to go for setup.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

I can help you with that.

What? I know his agreement is to show up and tag me on social media, but not once was it ever said I would be dragging him to the convention center to do manual labor. I reply:

Beckham, you are NOT going to help me schlep jars to the convention center.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

Cupcake. I assure you my work in the weight room has made it possible for me to lift a box of JARS.

I can’t help but smile at that. I respond:

Grumpy, I have no doubt of your muscular ability to carry Mason jars or even—gasp!—push a dolly. But can you set up a folding table? Get the tablecloth on just right? Arrange jars in a way that appeals to the consumer’s eye? Understand how colors and items need to be grouped in a specific way to entice a consumer to purchase? I have to have these questions answered before I consider adding you to the team at Georgie’s Jars.

I chuckle and wait for him to reply. Which he does:

Since when did you start speaking in tongues?

I snicker at that.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

I’ve got to turn my phone off. About to take off. I’ll check in when I get to Orlando. I’ve got to keep an eye on you and make sure you aren’t running around Miami spray painting every tree you see some glitter sparkle pink.

I type back a quick reply:

The world would be better with more sparkling Pinkmas trees.

I grin, picturing the eye-rolling this message will get when he reads it.

And despite myself, my heart flutters a bit when I think of the reply I’ll receive from Beckham.

* * *

I retrieve my brush and dip it into my bronzer, carefully applying it across the tops of my cheekbones, singing along with “Delicate” as it plays from my Bluetooth speaker.

And you know, thinking about Beckham because he’s been texting me since he landed in Orlando. He’s getting ready to get dinner with some teammates, while I’m getting ready for Friendsgiving with my sister and friends.

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