Page 14 of Own the Eights
“You did, Deac,” he answered, his voice steady.
“Now, get that run in, clear your head, and prepare for success.”
“Thanks,” he said to the man who’d been more of a father to him than his real father had ever been.
“And Jordan?”
“Yeah, Deac.”
“What do you know about Shelly?”
He shrugged. “She works the desk.”
Deacon nodded and glanced inside the gym. “Go crush that 10K!” he said, his gaze trained on the front desk.
Jordan bit back a grin. Jesus! What was Deac thinking? But he had bigger things to worry about than his mentor checking out a pretty girl. He popped in his earbuds, set off down the street, then glanced at his phone. He’d get in his run, and then he’d check his email—because discipline mattered. Yes, he wanted the CityBeat gig. He wanted fame and notoriety.
But he was not a quitter.
If he set a goal, he exceeded it. He told himself he’d run three miles today. Instead, he’d follow Deac’s advice and run six. Pushing his body to the limit with each stride, he stripped off his shirt and tucked it in the band of his mesh shorts as he passed by the shops and cafés dotting the Tennyson town center.
He liked this neighborhood and had rented a small bungalow not far from the gym. Working for Deacon, he’d been all over the state setting up CrossFit locations. But this place, while still near the bustling city, had a small-town feel to it that strangely appealed to him. He kicked up his pace, darting off the sidewalk and onto the road to pass a couple pushing a stroller. He cut back onto the pavement and passed a little bookshop, that lately, seemed to be packed with old ladies staring out of the front window.
He regulated his breathing, his body grateful to burn off the nervous energy he’d harbored all day. He crossed the street and headed for a large patch of open space. He’d finish his run at Tennyson Park, doing laps under the shade of the giant oaks and beech trees that lined a trail circling the space. He’d completed twelve laps when his phone beeped, signaling the six-mile mark. And like a kid waiting to go downstairs on Christmas morning, anticipation building, he stopped and stared at the email icon on his screen.
“CityBeat is yours,” he whispered, then pressed the envelope icon.
One new message.
Subject: Congratulations from CityBeat.
He scanned the message. Show up today. Meet the team.
Fuck yes!
He was going to be big, bigger than big. Big enough to show everyone that he wasn’t a scrawny kid without a backbone.
He was Jordan Marks of the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset.
He started to type a reply when a shouting woman caught his attention.
“Grab him!” she called.
He looked around, but before he could make out if she were talking to him, a small blur of brown fuzz zoomed past him, followed by a larger blur of barking black and white fur.
And then, her.
Sprinting in those clunky Birkenstock sandals, a terrible choice for running, was a woman with a dark tangle of hair, twisted into a bun on the top of her head. Tendrils framed her face as she made her way closer. Her running form was complete shit, but he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t help but notice the curve of her neck and the sway of her hips. Clad in a cardigan that completely clashed with her skirt, she was mesmerizing. If he needed an example of the opposite of a Marks Perfect Ten Mindset woman, she’d be it.
He blinked.
It had to be the complete train wreck aspect of her appearance that had him enthralled.
She skidded to a stop in front of him with a dog leash clutched in her hand and gasped.
“It’s you!” she said, eyes as wide as saucers.
“Me?” he asked, giving her a pleasant enough smile.
