Page 17 of Own the Eights
Georgie
Georgie glanced at the clock on the dashboard of her compact Volkswagen Rabbit. “You won’t be late. You won’t be late. You won’t be late.”
She might be late.
Thanks to Mr. Tuesday, and no thanks to Mr. Park Jerk, aka Brice Casey-esque creep, she’d barely had time to get Mr. Tuesday home and settled. She managed to pull a comb through her hair and quickly redo her bun. There was no way she was going to let her thick locks loose without a real wash and a blowout, which she had no time for due to the squabbling and garden variety asshattery she’d endured from that guy who’d barely agreed to help her.
The nerve! Talk about zero humanity.
All Brice Casey and no Mr. Darcy, and her literary trifecta agreed. Well, they almost agreed. They tried to remind her that first impressions often didn’t tell the whole story. But Georgie was a master in sussing out the Brice Casey type. She’d written a myriad of posts on it.
But what cut her to the core was that she’d almost abandoned her Own the Eights principles when the asshat turned out to be the same guy who’d left her all googly-eyed when he’d run past her bookshop. She’d nearly slipped when she called out for help and met his piercing green eyes and really got a look at his torso that would never need photoshop. It had taken all her restraint not to run her fingers down the hard plane of his abdomen just to make sure he was real.
His body was so perfect it nearly took her breath away—for the second time that day. Until his perfection and craptastic demeanor snapped her back. Yet, he had helped her. He’d caught Mr. Tuesday. He’d been a complete jerk about it, but he’d done it.
Ah! Forget about him!
Her car sputtered and whined, the gears grinding together, something else she’d need to use her winnings to take care of, as she parked in front of the CityBeat building, grateful to find a spot. She cut the ignition, closed her eyes, and took two cleansing breaths. Meandering walks and meditation were vital components of the Own the Eights philosophy. She had no time to meander, so it was up to meditation to quickly clear her mind and open the channels of positive energy. She’d just interviewed a local yoga teacher for the blog a few weeks ago and had written about using meditation to curb initial superficial attraction. It was a huge hit, garnering thousands of likes.
She inhaled then exhaled, emptying her thoughts of perfection and surface-level attraction.
That’s all it had been today. In a moment of panic, her thoughts racing, she’d fallen under the shirtless man’s spell. Totally reasonable under the circumstances. And so what if he worked in the area. She’d stay in her neck of the woods, tucked away in her little bookshop, and he could reign supreme over his Perfectville in some hyper-masculine gym, pumping iron and roid-raging his nuts into raisins.
That’s a good one.
Georgie smiled. It was always quite a compliment when Lizzy Bennet liked something she came up with.
With one last cleansing breath, she grabbed her bag and a folder with all her blog post ideas. She’d submitted several to CityBeat already but wanted to be ready to address her team if they needed more ideas.
Team!
She was nearly bursting with excitement. Surely, they’d have to be like-minded people—total Own the Eights converts. Why would CityBeat make them her team if they weren’t?
And the possibilities to expand Own the Eights were endless. From more in-depth dating advice to healthy living to environmentally friendly practices to volunteering to help the community, there were so many avenues they could pursue, so many fruitful, soul-satisfying ways to help people connect with their eight.
She entered the CityBeat building and headed for the reception desk and caught her reflection in one of the mirrored panels. No, she hadn’t had time to change her clothes. But this was who she was, a pattern mixing, bookshop owning, advice-giving, crusader for authentic, meaningful connection, who just happened to love Birkenstocks and cardigans. She studied her reflection, pleased she hadn’t fallen prey to altering her wardrobe to impress some shallow Brice Casey-like bottom-dweller when she collided into a wall.
Not a wall.
A back.
And not any back.
His back.
Even with a shirt on, she recognized the broad shoulders and the punishingly perfect cut of his muscled forearms.
He turned and gripped her elbow, which would have been a very chivalrous gesture if he hadn’t immediately cringed when they made eye contact.
“Are you following me?” He scoffed.
She gasped. “Am I following you?”
He shook his head. “Yeah, that’s what I just asked you. Did you lose your dog again?”
“No, Mr. Use-Your-Damn-Leash. That is what you said your name was, correct? I am not following you.” She reared back and pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh, my God! Are you following me?”
His jaw dropped. “Why would I follow you?”
