Page 9 of Miami Ice

“I keep thinking I’m dreaming this whole scenario.”

“I would believe that over the real one, but I can confirm you are awake and talking to me.”

“This is so unsettling, Chloe! What am I even considering? This seems so wrong!”

“Well, that’s because not only is this a freaking weird proposition, but it’s beyond out of your character to do something like this.”

“It’s amazing what selling three jars a weekend will drive you to do,” I say dryly.

“Well, if you want to put it into positives and negatives, Beckham Bailey ishot. Being paid to kiss him would not be a chore.”

I feel my neck grow hot, an embarrassed flush quickly rising straight up to my chin. “Would you stop? I’m not kissing him! He’s not even my type!”

“How are you going to avoid that? Youhaveto kiss him in public. You’ve got to be convincing!”

Shit, shit, shit! I never thought of that!

I draw my lower lip between my teeth, then silently curse myself for doing so, because now I’m sure I have red lipstick on my teeth.

I can’t kiss Beckham! He’s a womanizer. A playboy.

This man is an experienced kisser.

Which is something I’m definitely NOT.

I grow mortified from the thought. I’ve had sex exactly three times. All with my longtime high school boyfriend. I lost my virginity on prom night, and we had—sorta—sex twice that night. I turn red as I think about it. I have no regrets about losing my virginity to Luke, I was in love—or so I thought. But it turned out to be an awkward, embarrassing, fumbling experience that quickly led to our breakup out of sheer embarrassment on both our parts.

In short? It wasn’t a great experience for either of us. Once I got to the University of Miami, I wasn’t interested in college-aged dudes, because the ones I met were more interested in drinking and hooking up rather than relationships.

And I’m a one-hundred-percent believer in love and relationships kind of girl.

But how did I let it slip my mind that I might have to kiss freaking Beckham Bailey? HOW? Oh wait, I know.

It was the vision of one hundred thousand dollars.

“Ughhhhh,” I groan into the phone. “I don’t see how this is going to work.”

“Hmm, I bet Mr. Bailey could show you how some other things work,” Chloe teases. “He’s pretty good at handling a stick. Makes you wonder what he would do wi—”

“You are not my best friend,” I interrupt.

She laughs. “Message me all the details when you’re done.”

Then she hangs up.

I exhale and make my way over to the restroom. I need to check my teeth before I meet Beckham.

I push open the door, entering into a plush ladies’ room that has nicer furniture than my apartment and smells like the hills of Tuscany.

Not that I’ve ever been to Tuscany, but I’m pretty sure it would be aromatic like this.

I wash my hands and dry them. Then I stare at my reflection in the large mirror, doubts swirling through my head. Beckham and I sound like complete opposites. He’s a professional athlete known for partying. I’m a woman who sits home and paints Mason jars. Beckham is a grump—at least according to Sofia—and I’m calledChristmas Sparkleby my friends. If we agree to this partnership, it’s not going to be easy.

It’s going to be beyond hard.

Maybe even impossible.

I stare back at my reflection, taking in my blue eyes and red-painted lips. My hair is done in loose waves, tumbling down my back. I wasn’t sure how to dress for tonight—is this a business meeting? I don’t know what to even call it. But I opted for dressy due to the location alone. I pulled out my satin A-line J. Crew dress. The color is champagne, which looks fantastic with my hair. The hemline is modern—falling above my knee—and the bodice is fitted.

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