Page 44 of Own the Eights
“Sara’s great,” Jordan said, tossing her a little ha-ha glance.
Smug asshat!
Georgie waved her hands. “Hold on one hot minute. Irene, your husband is an eight. You met him following the Own the Eights method. He’s not some musclebound meathead of a ten!”
Irene blushed and flashed the hint of a naughty grin. “He’s still an eight. But now, he’s an eight with washboard abs.”
Washboard abs!
What was going on? Jordan Marks and his superficial Perfect Ten Mindset was seeping into every facet of her life.
She whipped off her apron then smashed another cookie into her mouth. “Let’s get this over with,” she said and headed toward the door.
“We’ll hold down the fort!” Becca called.
“Have fun, but not too much fun!” Irene added.
She gave them a backwardscrew-youwave as she left the shop, seething about Irene’s husband.
Jordan joined her outside on the sidewalk. “I can’t believe that you’re power-eating cookies before a run.”
“They’re vegan. It’s like an energy bar,” she answered, meeting his gaze when everything stopped.
The sweet lingering ache between her legs and the tingle of her lips wanting to be plastered to his were a powerful reminder that when it came to Jordan Marks, while her brain knew he was the devil, her body wanted to sin with this man all night long.
Jordan blinked as if he too had flashed back to their stress relief session. “Cookies are absolutely nothing like an energy bar. And I’ll have you know that many energy bars might as well be classified as candy bars with the amount of sugar and…”
He glanced down at her feet.
“What?” she asked, checking out her Nikes.
“I’ve never seen you without your pilgrim buckle sandals.”
She shook her head, then started walking. So, this was how it was going to be, which was a relief. She could play the part of a nerdy, well-read, environmentally conscious eight, and he could continue on as the reigning Emperor of Asshattery. But why did her mind keep flashing back to his eyes, hungrily devouring her body? Why could she still feel his hands gripping her ass?
Jordan caught up to her. “Since you said you were good at sprinting out of ballrooms, which sounds like the most insane form of cardiovascular exercise, let’s start with that. Just pretend I’m that Brice Casey guy, and try to catch me.”
The earth rocked off its axis.
Her jaw dropped. “What did you just say?”
Her trifecta gasped. Shit just got real.
He frowned. “I said, try to catch me.”
She narrowed her gaze. “What did you say before that?”
Confusion marred his perfect ten face. “When I helped you catch your dog the other day, you kept calling me Brice Casey. I figured he was some guy who dumped you that you still had a thing for. You could draw on that energy for your sprint.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. Fire stirred in her belly. If she were cast in a young adult paranormal movie, this would be the part where her hair would blow wildly in the wind as menacing storm clouds gathered behind her.
She took a step toward him. “I’m going to count to five. You better run, Marks. This is your first and last warning.”
“You think you can catch me?” he asked with his signature smirk.
“One.”
This asshat just unleashed World War III. Well, her version where nobody died.
