Page 58 of Own the Eights
She did have a point.
“What happens now?” he asked when the door to the bookshop swung open, and a woman who looked like an older version of Georgie, wrapped in a fire engine red dress and dripping with diamonds, entered the room.
“Oh, Georgiana, pumpkin! I forgot how dank it was inside this sad little shop,” the woman said, then removed a perfume bottle from her handbag and gave it a few sprays.
A hot blush bloomed on Georgie’s cheeks. “What are you doing here, Mother?”
Mother?
“I’m here for book club, pumpkin. Didn’t you say that CityBeat would be here filming it? I told all the girls at the Denver Country Club that I was going to be on the web or the net or whatever they call it.”
Georgie sighed. “I also told you that I don’t know when they’ll show up to film or take pictures.”
The woman dropped the perfume back into her bag, then zeroed in on him, her cougar gaze raking over his body.
Holy hell! How was this woman not only related to Georgie but her mother?
Her stilettos clicked on the wood floor as she strode up to him. “You didn’t mention Jordan was going to be here,” she said, pawing his arm.
He took a slight step back. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Jensen.”
This was getting a little awkward.
She waved a hand decked with gemstones. “I’m not Mrs. Jensen. I’m Lorraine Vanderdinkle. You might have heard of my husband, Howard Vanderdinkle. He’s a venture capitalist. You know, tech, blah, blah, blah. I just can’t keep up with it all.”
He hadn’t heard of Howard Vanderdinkle—and Christ, what a name! But he nodded politely, then glanced over at Georgie, who’d crossed her arms and plastered on the hard grin of one holding back sociopathic tendencies.
These two women couldn’t be more different if they tried.
Lorraine turned to Georgie and huffed out an irritated sigh. “Shoulders back, pumpkin. Chin up. Don’t you remember anything from our hard work during your beauty pageant days?”
The hot blush drained from Georgie’s cheeks.
“Beauty pageant days?” he asked.
Lorraine gasped. “You didn’t tell him?”
“That was a long time ago, Mom,” Georgie said, piling a few books into a stack.
Mrs. Vanderdinkle—Jesus, he still couldn’t get over that name—feigned mock distress. “Yes, back when my daughter was a winner and not promoting this embrace of mediocrity with herEat the Sixesblog.”
“It’sOwn the Eights,Mom.”
Lorraine gave another wave of her platinum-encrusted hand. “Whatever! Oh Jordan, she was such a knockout back then. We were killing it on the pageant circuit, and then, tragedy struck my poor beauty.”
He looked from Georgie to her mother. “What happened? Did you get sick or hurt?”
“No, I got fat,” Georgie answered over her shoulder, now busying herself by collecting all the snacks and refreshments she’d set out.
Lorraine shook her hands and scrunched up her face or at least tried. The woman seemed to have had a shitload of Botox.
“We don’t use that word, Georgiana. I will not have it spoken in my presence.” Georgie’s mom pressed her bejeweled hand to her chest. “My beautiful Georgiana had become so unruly, Jordan. You should have seen what I had to deal with! She’d literally jump off the stage in five-inch heels and sprint out of the ballrooms where the pageants were held. And do you know where I’d find her?”
This was not a conversation he wanted to be a part of, but Holy Mary, it explained a hell of a lot about Georgie Jensen.
“I don’t know,” he stammered.
“Dunkin’ Donuts,” the woman said with the level of contempt usually reserved for drug cartel kingpins. “She’d tuck money into her dresses and costumes, even her bikinis, so she could escape and gorge herself with sugar and dough.”
