Page 38 of Own the Eights
Her cheeks grew pink. “We can eat on the couch. My kitchen table is a little full.”
He glanced over at the small table, teeming with books and legal pads.
“No problem.”
He followed her out of the kitchen and sat down next to her on the couch.
“So, this is your life?”
Christ! He sounded like an idiot!
She chuckled through a bite of salmon. “I’m sure it’s not as glamorous as yours. You’re probably on the VIP list at every fancy restaurant and take out a different perfect ten woman every night.”
If she only knew.
“Something like that,” he said and took a bite.
“Should we look at the schedule?” she asked, reaching down and pulling the sheet of paper out of her purse as Mr. Tuesday sauntered to him and curled up around his feet.
Georgie gasped. “Look at that! You can’t be completely void of a soul if Mr. Tuesday likes you.”
“Only partially void,” he said and took another bite of the salmon. The whole meal was fucking delicious, but hell if he was about to cop to loving her leftovers.
She sat cross-legged and set her plate on the coffee table. “Everything is a little cryptic on this, except for the last event. It looks like the competition ends at the Denver Trot, and it’s going to be live-streamed onto the CityBeat site.” She frowned. “Is that a dance, like a foxtrot?”
Now it was his turn to laugh. He finished the fucking delicious food and set his empty plate next to hers. “It’s a 10K race.”
She grimaced. “Like running?”
“Yeah, that’s generally what’s expected in a race.”
“How many miles is a 10K?”
“Just six point two.”
Her jaw dropped. “Of running? Over six miles of straight running without any scary clowns or grizzly bears chasing you?”
“Let me see that,” he said, holding out his hand. She passed him the schedule, and he scanned it quickly. “It says here we’ll accumulate our final likes as we complete the race.”
Georgie leaned back and rested her head on the couch cushion. “The Dannies will probably perform CPR and save a man’s life on the race route. And I’m warning you now, I’m not a runner. I can sprint. I can bust out of a ballroom and be halfway down the block like nobody’s business, but I’m not a runner.”
“You are now,” he shot back.
She sat forward. “No, I promise you, I’m not.”
This was not good. There was no damn way he’d be meandering his way through the Denver Trot—especially if it’s going to be live-streamed for millions to see.
“Even if I have to throw you over my shoulder, your ass is crossing that finish line, Georgiana. Marks Perfect Ten Rule number one, you always finish what you start.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Own the Eights Rule number one is to honor who you are on the inside. If that means not winning a race, then so be it.”
“We’re not losing that race. I’ll train you every day if I have to, but this is non-negotiable.”
“Winning isn’t everything,” she bit out, fire raging in her eyes.
He leaned in. “Yeah, it is.”
Mr. Tuesday must have sensed the shift in the atmosphere. He scrambled over to a doggie bed on the other side of the room, but not before bumping into a pile of books stacked on the corner of the coffee table.
