Page 2 of Own the Eights
Georgie released a slow breath. He must have seen something in her. This perfect man must have seen the woman behind the glasses and the messy bun. And while she hadn’t shared much about herself—she’d used the only opening in the conversation which occurred when Brice stopped talking to pop a mini quiche into his mouth, to excuse herself to use the restroom after having to pee for nearly an hour. But Brice was waiting for her with a fresh drink in his hand when she emerged, empty-bladdered.
Come to think of it, he’d had quite a few fresh drinks while they were chatting.
No matter.
Tonight, she was drinking club soda. There wasn’t going to be any eight-dollar Chardonnay clouding her mind. No, if this was going to be the biggest night of her life, she wanted to remember every detail with crystal clear clarity.
“That might be him,” the bartender said with a slight nod toward the door.
Georgie’s pulse ratcheted up a notch. “Is it a guy?”
“Yeah, and he’s scanning the place.”
“Does he have perfect hair and a broad chest?”
Irene nodded. “I’ll give you that. The hair is pretty great.”
Georgie swallowed past the lump in her throat.
You can do this. You’ve had hundreds, even thousands of pairs of eyes watching you. Brice Casey is one guy. You’ve got this.
She turned on the barstool and plastered on her best beauty queen smile. She’d use every little tool in her arsenal tonight—even the ones she’d promised herself she’d never resurrect.
Brice’s gaze passed over her once, then twice, then a third time before it landed on a group of giggling women in a booth, knocking back tequila shooters.
“Brice! Over here!” she called and raised her hand like she was the biggest nerd in class.
Well, she was the biggest nerd, but no bother. He’d picked her, right? This handsome man, with what he’d described as a bevy of prospects, liked her.
He took a few steps forward and narrowed his gaze. “Virginia?”
She looked from side to side and caught Irene’s eye. The woman grimaced then moved down the bar to serve a hipster holding up an empty beer stein.
“Georgiana,” she said, patting her chest as if she were introducing herself to a long-hidden away Amazonian tribe who’d never come into contact with others.
“Georgia?” Brice said on another try.
Holy Mary!
“Close,” she answered, turning up the wattage on her smile. “Georgie is what most people call me. Only my mother calls me Georgiana, but we don’t have to get into her on our first date,” she added with a high-pitched laugh that sounded like a horse whinnying on helium.
Get it together, girl!
Brice looked her up and down. “I must have had on some serious beer goggles last night. You are not what I remember.”
Hermione, Lizzy, and Jane, her fictional soul sisters, shook their imaginary heads and Georgie’s jaw dropped.
She steadied herself and had a quick tête-à-tête with the fictional trifecta.
He didn’t just say that I’d been more attractive after a few drinks, did he?
The literary trio answered by clucking their tongues.
She had to have misheard him.
She tried to amp her grin up, but she’d hit deranged beauty queen, and there was no going past that.
“You were drinking Manhattans, not beer. Remember, you told me the story about how you and your fraternity brothers drove all the way from Denver to New York to have an authentic experience ordering the drink in the real Manhattan?”
