Page 56 of Own the Eights
For example, yo-yos.
Some dude in Kentucky was afraid of yo-yos. He commented that the goat confession blog post had inspired him to overcome his fear and hold a yo-yo. The guy even posted a picture of himself doing it.
In terms of the contest, it was the spike he and Georgie had needed. Now, thanks to those baby goats, they were only a handful of likes behind the Dannies, with him in second place and Georgie in third.
He wanted to be happy, and he was grateful his post had helped his Marks Perfect Ten Mindset followers, but he wanted success for Georgie, too. She was the only reason he’d made it through goat yoga without pissing himself from fear.
But his mentor was right. There could only be one winner, and Deacon had transformed him into a champion.
But fuck!
“Jordan, look at your damn phone!” Deacon called, stealing another glance at Shelly.
“All right, Deac. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened the text.
“Well?” Deacon beckoned.
Jordan schooled his features, masking the surge of adrenaline that hit his system.
“I need to go. It’s another CityBeat challenge. Are you good to close alone, Shelly?” he asked.
“I can stick around and help out,” Deacon said, sharing a look with the desk clerk, who happened to be young enough to be his daughter.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. Fuck it! He didn’t have time to cock-block his boss.
He headed to the locker room, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, then took another look at the text to double-check what he already knew.
CityBeat had texted him the address of Georgie’s bookshop, but he sure as shit wasn’t about to tell Deacon. He went through the back and jumped in his Beamer. If he’d left his car, Deacon, while probably already bending Shelly over one of the treadmills, would know something was up.
And why did CityBeat want him to go to the bookshop? Was he just supposed to pick her up? Was something going on at the shop?
He couldn’t let his nerves get the best of him. He was Jordan Marks. The creator of the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset. He was cool under pressure, except for when it came to one particular woman in cork sandals and librarian glasses.
It took less than two minutes to get to her shop by car. He parked, cut the ignition, then scrubbed his hands down his face. This was a competition. He’d go in. They’d do whatever the hell they had to do, and that was it.
But that wasn’t it.
Get your head in the game, Marks.
He got out and walked up to the bookshop, and there she was, setting out a tray of muffins and doughnuts. Christ! What he’d do for her muffin.
Gah! Stop!
He opened the door, and she turned to him with a wide grin that immediately faded.
She narrowed her gaze. “What are you doing here?”
“CityBeat sent me. Didn’t you get a text?”
She shook her head.
He pulled out his phone. Had he hallucinated? Had she been so prominent in his thoughts that he’d goneOne Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nestand made it up?
No, it was there in black and white.
“The shop’s closed. Our book club is about to start,” she said, craning her head to look out the window.
