Page 3 of Own the Eights
Brice nodded, and his expression grew nostalgic. “Those, Virginia, those were good days.”
“It’s Georgiana. Georgie,” she corrected, her smile deflating like a balloon.
This was not the perfect date she’d envisioned.
“I would have sworn it was Virginia,” he answered, scratching his chin.
“No, my name’s Georgie. It always has been.”
“You’re sure it’s not Georgia?”
She stared into his beautiful eyes. Should she just let him call her Georgia? It was close to Georgie.
Hermione groaned somewhere in her subconscious.
Georgie mustered every ounce of self-worth she had. “Yes, I’m completely positive that my name is Georgiana. Well, Georgie.”
“Really, huh? Georgie? It does sound a lot like Georgia,” he added with a slight smirk as if he’d just cured world hunger on the fly.
She needed to change tack. “Did you want to get something to eat or maybe a drink first?”
Brice’s gaze slid toward the table of laughing women and then back to her. “I’m going to level with you, Georgia.”
“Georgie,” she corrected, feeling the walls closing in on her.
He patted her shoulder with the tenderness of a salamander. “Listen, Georgia, I’m going to go. This isn’t going to work for me.”
Georgie glanced at his hand and then to his stunning face. “I’m not sure I understand.”
He shook his head and sighed dramatically, feigning compassion. “It’s me. It’s not you.”
Her heart stopped beating. Okay, it didn’t stop. She was still standing, but it surely hiccupped at Brice’s words.
“Oh, I see. I just thought because you asked to meet me tonight that we…” she trailed off, but it didn’t matter because Brice wasn’t even listening to her. His gaze was locked on the tequila shooter contingent…again.
“Brice?” she said.
His head snapped back, and he waved his hands. “No, I got that wrong.”
Georgie held her breath. “You did?”
“Yeah, I did…because it is you. You see, I’m going places, Virginia, and people expect a certain caliber of woman on my arm.”
Caliber of woman?
Georgie’s literary trifecta bristled.
“Excuse me?” she bit out, the words barely a whisper.
He took a step back and looked her up and down. “The truth is, Georgia, you’re an eight at best.”
A flurry of judges’ scorecards and the dull ache of wearing five-inch heels for twelve hours straight washed over her.
“An eight?” she echoed.
“Yeah, like on a scale from—”
She put up her hand. “Oh, I understand what you’re telling me.”
