Page 18 of Own the Eights
“You’re here, aren’t you?” she shot back.
Incredulity marred his perfect features. “Yeah, I got here first. You got here second. Any kindergartner could tell you that means you’re following me.”
She held his gaze, willing her retinas to acquire laser power to blast this asshat off the planet.
“Miss Jensen?” a woman said, cutting through the tension.
Georgie blinked. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I thought so. You and Mr. Marks are expected upstairs. Mr. Garcia and Mr. Chang are waiting for you on the twelfth floor,” the woman said serenely as if there was nothing odd about two strangers verbally assaulting each other in the CityBeat lobby.
Georgie cocked her head to the side. “Hector Garcia and Bobby Chang, CityBeat’s founders, are waiting for the two of us? Me and him?” she added, pointing back and forth.
“Wow, you are speedy-quick on the uptake, lady,” thisMr. Markssaid under his breath.
She flicked her gaze from the receptionist over to the creep. “You, sir, are one supreme asshat.”
“I guess you’re not nice,” he replied with a smirk.
Georgie jerked her head back. “I am nice. I volunteer at animal shelters.”
He shrugged. “I remember you saying just a few hours ago that if you weren’t a nice person, you’d call me a supreme asshat.”
“If the shoe fits,” she mumbled, taking a page from his playbook.
He glanced down at her feet. “I should probably use my supreme asshat status to let you know that seventeen BC is calling, and they’d like their sandals back.”
“These are Birkenstocks,” she bit out in a tight whisper.
They were comfortable and supported her high arches. If she controlled the universe, she’d decree them the eighth wonder of the world.
“Yep, and they still belong in the dark ages,” he replied, crossing his arms.
Unable to reply—because what kind of creep could have beef with comfortable footwear—Georgie stood stock still in a dazed stupor. Thankfully, the receptionist pulled her out of her state of utter shock when she came around from behind the desk and handed them name badges.
“Jordan Marks and Georgie Jensen, here you go. The elevators are to your left. Once you’re on the twelfth floor, take a right. You can’t miss Mr. Garcia and Mr. Chang’s office.”
Georgie turned to the woman and lowered her voice. “Are you sure he’s supposed to be here?”
“I’m literally standing next to you. I can hear everything you just said,” the asshat, Jordan, said and shook his head.
“Yes, you’re both supposed to be here,” the woman answered.
Georgie nodded then clipped her name badge to her cardigan as Jordan did the same, minus the cardigan. If she wasn’t so well versed in her Own the Eights methodology, she might have noticed that he was wearing the hell out of a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled casually, exposing his forearms.
She sighed. And what forearms they were.
Hermione, Jane, and Lizzy held up blaring air horns, shocking her out of her forearm stupor and signaling for her to hightail it to the elevator. Unfortunately, Jordan Marks, God, what a stupid name, followed her into the tight space and pressed the button for the twelfth floor.
She caught him checking out her reflection in the mirrored elevator and met his gaze. “This is a big day for me. I’m not sure what business you have with the CityBeat founders, but I’m here for a very important reason,” she said, looking into the eyes of his stupid perfect reflection.
“Yeah, me too. Can we just agree to keep out of each other’s way? You do what you need to do, and I’ll take care of my business. Deal?” he asked her reflection.
“Fine, deal,” she said, turning to him and extending her hand.
“You want to shake on it?” he asked.
“Yeah, it needs to be a real deal,” she sneered. She rarely sneered. It was such an unpleasant expression, but this seemed like the right time to do it.
