Page 4 of Own the Eights
Brice’s perfect features came together in a condescending grin. “Good, I’m glad. And you should own it, Virginia.”
“The eight?” she shot back.
“Sure, I mean, it won’t get you a guy like me, but there’s gotta be someone out there good with an eight.”
The room started to spin. The lights were suddenly too bright, highlighting her every fault, her tiniest of blemishes. She could smell the Aqua Net, feel the Vaseline smeared across her teeth.
You need to get the fuck out of there.
Georgie blinked. Prim and proper Jane Eyre just dropped an f-bomb.
“So, we’re good? No hard feelings, Georgia?”
Brice Casey had a beautiful face with a strong jawline and a sweet little dimple that winked every time he cracked a smile. He smelled good, and he dressed like a GQ cover model.
And she couldn’t be more disappointed with herself if she’d tried.
She, more than anyone, should know better than to judge someone on their appearance. She knew the trappings of perfection all too well.
But here’s what really stung. Brice Casey may be a first-class asshat, but she was the one who fell for his good looks, hook, line, and sinker.
Deep in her mind, Lizzy, Jane, and Hermione were shaking their fictional heads.
Georgie lifted her chin. “Yeah, we’re good, Brice.”
“Ah, you’re a peach. Hey, like a Georgia peach,” he said, his eyes lighting up at his cleverness before he turned and left the bistro.
She watched the door slam then looked over her shoulder to see Irene.
“No dice on the date?” the woman asked with a sympathetic expression.
“He said I was just an eight and not thecaliberof girl he usually dated.”
Irene sucked in a tight breath. “Ouch! Are you okay?”
Georgie straightened her shoulders. “You know what? I’m fine. It just took the perfect jerk to help me see it.”
“Girl power,” the bartender said, extending her closed hand for a fist bump.
Georgie reciprocated. “Girl power.”
“And you should own that eight, lady,” Irene said with a chuckle, slapping a dish towel over her shoulder.
Georgie stilled. “That’s what he said.”
“What? That guy?” Irene asked.
“Yeah, he said I should own it.”
The bartender shrugged. “Own the Eights? It is kind of catchy.”
An idea sparked in Georgie’s mind, and her three fictional mavens shrieked with excitement.
“It is,” Georgie answered, her thoughts racing. She glanced down at the half-empty glass, determination coursing through her veins. “What do I owe you for the club soda?”
Irene waved her off. “On the house. An eights special.”
Georgie grabbed her purse off the back of the stool, passed the tequila gigglers, and left the bistro. The gentle hum of the restaurant trailed behind her until all she heard were the quick snippets of conversation as she weaved her way home through couples and groups out for a night on Tennyson Street.
