Page 10 of Miami Ice

But my favorite bit is my necklace. It’s a pearl necklace adorned with a fabulous black bow on the side. It’s interesting and classy and I absolutely love it.

Can I do this?I think, staring at my reflection.Can I really change Beckham Bailey’s career just by pretending to be his girlfriend?

And can he save mine in return?

I peer at my teeth, removing the offending streak of red lipstick, and then gather a deep breath of air for courage.

It’s time.

I leave the ladies’ room and follow the directions to the hotel restaurant, my stilettos clicking against the marbled floor. I feel nerves attack my stomach as I reach the hostess stand.

“Good evening,” a young woman dressed in black says to me as she moves a stack of leather-bound menus. “How may I help you?”

I swallow. “I’m here to meet the Bailey party.”

She nods. “Yes, of course.”

As I follow her, a new Taylor Swift song echoes through my head: “…Ready For It?”

And I don’t know if I am.

Chapter Four

I follow behind the hostess, who leaves a trail of heavy perfume in her wake. For a split second, I forget about being ready to meet Beckham because I’m about to start choking on perfume vapors. My eyes begin to water, and a tickle begins to build in my throat. I will myself to repress it. GAH, it’s one of those heavy, powerful, suffocating perfumes. I blink rapidly and try not to breathe in the thick, musky scent, but that is becoming an impossible task.

My stomach churns as she continues to lead me through the restaurant. Good God, where are they sitting? At the chef’s table in the kitchen at the back of the restaurant? I’m going to pass out if I have to smell this much longer!

The hostess turns and approaches a room with two large carved wooden doors. She turns around, and I quickly plaster a smile on my face to replace the expression ofI’m about to throw upthat I know I’m wearing.

“Your party is seated in one of our private rooms this evening,” she says, pushing open one of the doors.

I nod, trying to hold my breath. If I can do that, maybe I can ignore how the sick feeling is building in my stomach.

I step inside the room, feeling greener by the second. The hostess steps aside, and as I move past her, I’m suffocated by herscent. Bile rises in my throat, and I nearly gag, but what stops me is what I see in front of me.

Not the beautiful room, or the trees wrapped in twinkling lights, or the doors that lead to a terrace with a view of the ocean.

It’s Beckham.

He rises from his plush seat, his eyes locked on mine. TV, Google, Connectivity, Sofia’s photo—they all failed me. My quick surfing before I left tonight told me I would be dealing with a good-looking man.

But I was not prepared for this.

Beckham Bailey is a freaking GOD.

If I didn’t think I’d throw up, I’m sure my jaw would be swinging open. His chocolate-brown hair is pushed back away from his face, the waves held back by a bit of product. He’s wearing a pale blue dress shirt—which surprises me—and the sleeves are turned up, revealing inked skin that goes all the way down to his wrists. Beckham’s shirt is tucked into a pair of black trousers, and I notice he’s wearing a black belt with a Louis Vuitton buckle. On his right wrist is a huge platinum watch; on his left wrist are black leather and silver bracelets.

I allow my gaze to travel back to his face. The scruff I’ve seen in some pictures is gone, leaving him clean shaven. I see full lips. A scar across his right cheek. Then my gaze meets his.

A jolt hits me the second our eyes meet. His eyes are a rich, deep, brown, fringed by long lashes, and they arebeautiful.

Those doe-like eyes look innocent, but I know Beckham is anything but.

Now there’s a Taylor mash-up spinning through my head, from snippets of “Mastermind” to “Shake it Off” to “Blank Space.”

The sick feeling in my stomach reaches a crescendo now.

I AM SO NOT READY FOR THIS.

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