Page 5 of Own the Eights
Block by block, she made her way down the main drag, then headed up a tree-covered side street toward a row of sleepy bungalows. With each step, a plan, no a religion, well, not a religion in the whole holiness scheme of things, but a way of thinking percolated in her mind. A philosophy to live by that would help women ignore blinding attractiveness and weed through the GQ jerks so they could focus on what really mattered.
Substance.
Character.
Kindness.
Intelligence.
And she was not about to keep this relationship epiphany to herself.
“Oh, I’ll show you how to own the eights,” she said, all determination and gumption, unlocking her front door as the clickity-clack of paws prancing on hardwood thundered toward her.
Black and white with one ear cocked up while the other drooped down, Mr. Tuesday, her sweet mutt-du jour, met her at the door with a wet nose and a warm kiss. She scratched behind his ears, then eyed her laptop on the living room table.
She picked up the device and settled in on the couch with Mr. Tuesday curled up next to her.
“Maybe we should make some coffee. I have a feeling this is going to be a late night.”
Mr. Tuesday let out a doggie sigh and closed his eyes. He wasn’t going to be any help. He still ate her shoes and never met a squirrel he wouldn’t chase. But she loved her shelter pup all the same.
She glanced around the room. “I need to get something.”
She set the laptop aside, went to her closet, and pulled out a worn shoebox. Opening the lid, she removed a wallet-sized snapshot and went back to the couch.
“This will be my reminder, Mr. Tuesday,” she said, giving the picture one more look before sliding it into the back of her wallet.
Opening her laptop, she pulled up the page for CityBeat, the internet’s mecca for lifestyle blogging. “All right, let’s do this. Enter name of blog,” she read aloud.
Her fingertips tingled.
“Oh, I’ve got a name for a blog. A name and a revolutionary way of thinking that will help the women of the world navigate the treacherous trail of handsome douchebags and find real, lasting love,” she said to the sweet pup, now snoring peacefully.
She steepled her hands, cracked her knuckles, then typed three words.
Own the Eights.
Tagline:Why date a ten when you should marry the eight.
She stared at the screen. “That’ll get people’s attention.”
And with the power and determination of a woman done with the guise of perfection who was not named Virginia or Georgia, Georgiana Jensen hit enter.
1
Georgie
“Today’s the day you find out if you won or not, right, Georgie?”
Georgiana set a stack of books on the counter, twisted her dark tangle of hair into a lopsided bun, then began sorting through a stack of unpaid bills.
Busy. She had to stay busy, or her nerves would get the best of her.
Georgie tapped the stack of bills into a neat pile. They’d get paid…eventually. And hopefully, if things went her way, she’d be caught up in no time. She set the stack back on the shelf beneath the bookshop’s register and turned to her part-time employee and her friend Irene’s little sister, Becca Murphy.
“Yeah, the last email I received said I should find out today if they chose me.”
Georgie glanced at her phone, which had remained silent for the better part of the day. She’d already checked her email eight thousand times. What would one more look hurt? She tapped the envelope icon and found…nothing.
