Page 29 of Own the Eights
While they entered their digits, he stole a glance over his shoulder and winked at her.
He was such the Emperor of Asshattery!
She mouthed the wordboringthen mimicked falling asleep.
And what did this lady even know about Jordan, besides the fact that he was good-looking and competent enough to retrieve a jar of honey? For Pete’s sake! Mr. Tuesday could do that, probably, maybe? Oh, who was she kidding? She was lucky if her sweet pup only ruined one pair of shoes a week instead of two. But it didn’t matter.
“You’ll find me in your contacts under Layla,” the redhead said, handing Jordan back his phone.
“I’ll be under Jordan,” he replied smoothly as a wave of nausea washed over her.
The redhead swished her perfect tumbled curls and headed up the aisle.
Jordan crossed his arms and leaned against the shelf. “What did I say? Bees to honey. Now, what was that, ten seconds to get her number?” He scratched his chin with a theatrical flair. “Nah, probably eight seconds. It looks like I’m the one owning the eights tonight, Georgie Jensen.”
“Jackass,” she muttered under her breath, throwing a few more items into her basket.
“Your turn, Messy Bun.”
Messy Bun! Of all the nicknames!
She pushed up onto her tiptoes in a sad attempt to be eye level with the man who just ruined honey for her. “Try to understand this. The person who’s going to like me, Jordan-totally-not-owning-the-eights, is going to be able to see past my bun. He’ll see me for the person I am on the inside. And, in fact, he’ll love this bun. He won’t be able to get enough of it.”
Jordan glanced at his watch. “That’s exactly what I’d expect someone in a cardigan to say. Now stop stalling.”
How could she have engaged in a lip-lock with this Slick Rick Perfect Ten cretin? She set off, searching the store for her Save the Whales guy.
“Cucumbers!” she whispered, remembering their brief conversation.
She hurried back to the produce section and found her guy still perusing the vegetables.
“Need any help handling that cucumber?” she asked, the words escaping her mouth a microsecond before she realized how perverted that question sounded.
Jordan coughed. “So smooth.”
She glared at him as he pretended to search for a head of lettuce.
“Excuse me?” Save the Whales asked, his gaze bouncing between herself and Jordan.
She pulled out her beauty queen smile—desperate times called for desperate measures. “I wanted to make sure you found the cucumbers.”
He held up the vegetable, and she leaned in to study it.
“You don’t want that one. You want a bigger one.”
“Holy shit!” Jordan fake coughed.
She lifted her chin and tried to ignore the six-foot-four man, now laugh-hacking all over the cilantro. “That cucumber’s too small. Now, if you choose one that’s too big, it may not taste as good and be a bit too seedy. What you want is a nice medium-sized one. You’ll also want to check it for flexibility.”
“What?” the guy asked, a little dazed.
She reached out, and Save the Whales gave her the vegetable.
She felt the cucumber carefully, slowly wrapping her hands around the cylindrical food. “See what I’m doing, and see how the cucumber is bending?”
Save the Whale’s eyes had gone wide as she massaged the vegetable, bending it side to side to show its flexibility.
“Jesus Christ on a cracker,” Jordan barked out in an exaggerated cough like a man dying of the Spanish flu.
