Page 125 of Miami Ice

“Georgie. I guarantee you he does not need three carts of Christmas decorations. He’s a dude. Throw up a tree and call it a day.”

I shoot her a look as the doors open, and the line begins to file into the store.

“Chloe with C not a K, have you developed amnesia and forgotten who you’re talking to?” I tease.

“Oh right. We should each get two carts,” she cracks.

Soon we’re stepping through the doors and grabbing carts. As we enter the store, I stop for a moment and take it all in. There are brand-new displays from when I was here with Beckham last week. Tables filled with ornaments and tree decor. Large wreaths and garlands. Pillows. Bed linens. Then a whole display of food, from peppermint bark to holiday coffees. Another with mugs and holiday plates.

Overhead, I hear Ariana Grande singing “Santa Tell Me,” and as I stand on the precipice of Christmas shopping glory, one thing runs through my mind.

This is my ultimate championship.

“Where do you want to start?” Chloe asks, showing more signs of life.

The caffeine and sugar must be kicking in now, I think wryly.

“We need to split up,” I say. “I want you to go to bed linens, and chuck anything into your carts that’s a Stewart plaid. King-sized duvet, shams, things like that. We can always put stuff back later.”

Suddenly a woman with a cart pushes her way past us, clipping mine as she does. She stops to look at me, and with shock, I realize it’s the woman who argued with me over the life-sized nutcracker. She’s wearing a T-shirt that says, “Out of my way, it’s Black Friday!”

On brand,I think.

“Nutcracker-stealing asshole!” she spits at me before unhooking her cart and pushing past us.

“What?” Chloe shrieks. “Did she just call you anasshole?”

I can’t help it. I begin laughing so hard I have tears in my eyes, and as soon as I know Beckham is up, I’m going to text him this story.

“That would be the woman who lost out on the life-sized pink nutcracker I got a few days ago,” I explain.

“Get out,” Chloe says.

“Yep. Apparently she’s very bitter about not getting her own life-sized nutcracker.”

“As one would be,” Chloe deadpans.

We both giggle.

“But seriously, we need to get shopping,” I say, redirecting her to my plan. “We’ll split up and gather, and we can text each other our progress along the way.”

Chloe arches an eyebrow. “Georgie. There are like thirty people here. I don’t think we have to worry about running out of whatever plaid it is that you want.”

“Chloe. Do not jeopardize the mission!” I tease.

She laughs. I take a moment to swipe open my phone. I go to Google, search Stewart plaid, and show her a picture. “This is what I want you to be on the lookout for. If you see it on anything, put it in the cart,” I instruct.

Chloe’s brows shoot up in surprise. “That doesn’t look very Georgie-like,” she says thoughtfully.

“No, it’s not me, but I’m doing a masculine Christmas for Beckham,” I explain. “He’s a grump about Christmas, so I need to carefully curate his space to make him comfortable, but still give a nod to the season.”

“You’re already in love with him if you’re willing to dial down Christmas toplaid,” she quips.

My cheeks grow hot. “How can I be inlovewith him? I’m just getting to know him.”

She grins knowingly at me. “Okay. But I want you to remember that I once told you at five in the morning at Home Joy that Iknewyou were in love with him.”

Then she gets in between her two carts, pushing one forward and dragging one behind her.

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