Page 36 of Own the Eights
“I can’t believe you did that,” Georgie said as the truck disappeared down the road.
He shifted his stance. “Like I said, I can’t have you ruining my chances.”
She groaned and stared up at the night sky. “This is a barrel of laughs, hanging out with you, but I should really get to my dog.”
“Lead the way,” he said and followed her up the brick path to her front door.
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “It may be a little messy inside. I wasn’t expecting to bring anyone home with me. But…it’s not that I’mnotable to meet an eight and bring him back to my place to connect on a deeper level,” she added, shifting her grocery bag from hand to hand.
“Right,” he replied, not sure what the hell to say to that.
She turned and pressed her back to the door. “And it’s not like we’d jump right into bed, this eight that I hypothetically met and invited back to my home. We’d probably play chess or checkers or talk. That’s what Owning the Eights is all about, and as the creator of the blog and a woman in charge of her body and her sexuality, that’s just what would happen,” she finished, looking just as confused by that quasi-rant as he was.
Away from the road and the streetlights, shadows cast on her face as a wisp of hair came free of her bun and blew across her cheek. He raised his hand to brush it back but stopped himself.
She is your competition.
He could hear Deacon’s voice in the breeze, laying down the law, training him to be the best.
He dropped his hand to his side. “Georgiana, I don’t care what your place looks like. We’re here to talk strategy. I’m not Save the Whales Steve looking to connect my soul to yours or whatever bullshit language you use to describe the mating habits of an eight.”
“There’s the asshat,” she said with what he would have sworn was a touch of disappointment as she unlocked the door.
But before he could throw back a barb about her shoes or her mismatched clothing, the excited yelps of Mr. Tuesday, yes, he knew the dog’s name, pulled Georgie’s attention away from him.
“How is my bestest boy?” she cooed as they entered the house.
“Bestest isn’t a real word,” he corrected. He knew damned well that she’d pegged him as a superficial jerk, and it was easier to play the part. He needed the distance. When he’d let his guard down, he’d either kissed her, called in a favor to have her car serviced, or held her hand like some goofy tween at the movies.
Georgie slipped a leash off a hook by the door and attached it to the dog’s collar. “I’ll just be a minute. Make yourself comfortable…but, not too comfortable.” She glanced around as if the moment she’d left, she expected him to go all stealth super-spy, copying her laptop’s hard drive and planting listening devices in her lamps.
He gave her his best Emperor of Asshattery face. “What do you think I’m going to do? Bust out your yoga mat or take a meandering walk and raid your refrigerator? Don’t worry, I won’t disrupt your home’s feng shui.”
“Do you even know what feng shui is?” she asked, halfway out the door, her dog pulling and skittering about at her feet.
He plastered on his signature Jordan Marks smirk. “No, but I’d bet my Beamer that you do.”
Georgie released an irritated groan and left the house with her animated dog.
With the place Georgie and dog-free, he inhaled. There was that smell again. Sweet vanilla. She’d probably bought a candle from some company that gave a villager a donkey with each purchase. That’s what an eight would do. But he cared about the environment, too. Being a ten did not mean screwing over the planet or anyone or anything for that matter. He took a meandering walk around her living room, and on every shelf, table, and even stacked in the corners, he found books. Lots of books. It made sense. She did own a bookstore. A hardback of Steinbeck’sEast of Edencaught his eye when he saw what could only be described as a shrine with little candles and doll figurines.
The door to the bungalow opened, and an excited Mr. Tuesday burst into the room and made a beeline toward him.
“You found my trifecta,” she said, hanging the leash back on the hook.
The dog came to his side, and he scratched between his ears. “I noticed your copy ofEast of Eden.”
“You like Steinbeck?” she asked, heading for the kitchen as Mr. Tuesday followed right on her heels.
“Yeah, I double-majored in English and Kinesiology,” he answered.
“Yeah, right, and I minored in Underwater Basket Weaving,” she called over the sound of a can opener.
She didn’t believe him. He was about to set her straight when he caught his reflection in the front window. He may not be the scrawny kid hidden away in a quiet corner of the library anymore, but that didn’t mean he’d lost his love of literature.
“Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice,andHarry Potter,” he said, turning to the books prominently featured on the shelf.
She joined him and lovingly ran her finger down the worn spine of Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice. “These are my favorites.”
