Page 6 of Own the Eights
No new emails.
Becca bent over and patted Mr. Tuesday’s head. “What do you think, Mr. Tuesday? Is Georgie going to be the next super-blogger for CityBeat? Is her blog going to be broadcast to all gazillion of the CityBeat readers?”
Mr. Tuesday’s ears perked up, and he barked.
“See, even your dog agrees that you’ve got this,” Becca said with a wide grin.
Georgie played with the tie on her apron. For the sake of the shop and her livelihood, Mr. Tuesday better be right. At this point, winning the CityBeat contest was her best prospect for keeping the bookstore open.
Nearly two years ago to the day, Georgie had started the Own the Eights blog on CityBeat’s site. The night of her encounter with Brice Casey had ignited a firestorm within her. She’d typed and typed, recounting the humiliating event and filled her first post with dating advice and the pitfalls of perfection.
Because that’s what perfection was. A false construct. A facade.
She’d thought Brice had been the perfect catch. But she’d been blinded by his good looks. Thanks to the guidance of her fictional trifecta, she’d decided to write a blog that would help othersnotmake the same mistake she had and teach them how to weed out the superficial aspects of dating to ensure a deeper level of connection.
Beauty is only skin deep, and it didn’t last forever. Forget initial attraction. Screw chemistry.
To hell with society’s version of perfection! Kindness, respect, and integrity were the real building blocks of a relationship. Her plan boiled down to this, write out the ten qualities you’d want in your ideal mate, then cross off the two that had anything to do with physical perfection.
Now, you had your eight substantive qualities to seek out in a significant other. A beacon of information that pointed you away from the empty flash of a perfect ass or the initial titillation of a charming grin and into the arms of the person who’d see in you what really mattered—your heart and your soul.
Georgie hadn’t even proofread the manifesto before hitting publish. Exhausted from penning her unabomber-esque declaration, she and her trusty companion, Mr. Tuesday, had crashed right there on the sofa. It was only when Mr. Tuesday dropped his slobber-encrusted ball on her sleeping face at the ass crack of dawn that she peeled her eyes open and found herself knee-deep in the world of relationship and lifestyle blogging.
Within twenty-four hours of the Own the Eights blog going live, she had thousands of followers and the Own the Eights hashtag had begun trending on social media. People everywhere posted their top ten list with the most superficial qualities crossed off.
Spurred by her success, Georgie’s blog grew to include an advice post every Wednesday, articles on where to meet your true soul mate and even included recipes, volunteer opportunities, inspirational meditations, and a list of suggested books to read. Between running her bookshop and writing the blog, she’d barely had a moment to breathe.
Unfortunately, while she loved blogging, it didn’t pay the bills…until, possibly, now.
“So, what happens next?” Becca asked.
Georgie closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. “The last email from CityBeat said to offer up some activities and then write about how they’re in-line with the tone of our blog. I sent them a few ideas for where to meet a quality partner and ways to stay centered while you’re waiting to find your eight.”
“And that’s it? If you win, they’ll start paying you?”
Georgie nodded. “The winner gets ten thousand dollars up-front and then gets brought on as a paid contributor.”
“Wow, Georgie!” Becca exclaimed. “That’s huge!”
But there was more. AmoreGeorgie thought about right before she fell asleep every night since she’d entered the contest. Most of CityBeat’s paid contributors went on to write books, host talk shows, headline as speakers at events. They made a difference on a grand scale, reaching people all over the world. If she won, not only could she afford to keep the shop open, she could help people find true love just like her literary trifecta—not just in the pages of a book, but in real life.
Becca leaned against the counter. “Earth to Georgie. When are you supposed to do all these activities?”
Georgie snapped back from her make-it-big daydream and glanced at the calendar on the wall. “Over the next few weeks. And I meant to ask you. Do you mind working more hours if I get picked for this? The email said there may be additional blog posts I’ll need to write and events I’ll need to attend. It sounds like I’ll need to be at their beck and call during this time.”
Becca’s eyes lit up. “Are you kidding? I’m a poor college student on summer break. Hell yes, I’ll take the hours,” she answered as the door to the bookshop opened, and a line of gray-haired women entered while a man with a cane held the door for them.
The new arrivals smiled warmly and made themselves comfortable in the seating area at the front of the shop.
“How are you doing, Georgie? Have you found out if you got it?” one of the women asked, breaking away from the group and coming to the counter.
“They haven’t announced anything yet, Mrs. Gilbert,” she answered, trying to stay calm.
The woman nodded, then addressed the group who were settling themselves into the worn chairs. “Everyone, listen!” Mrs. Gilbert called out at the top of her lungs, causing Georgie and Becca to nearly fall over. “They haven’t announced the winner yet!” She turned back to them with an apologetic grin. “My husband’s hearing aid is on the fritz again, so I’ve had to raise my voice for him to hear me.”
The ladies nodded as they removed their needlework from their bags and Mr. Gilbert stared out the window.
Mrs. Gilbert shook her head. “See what I mean. And he won’t let me check the battery or have it fixed. He tells me it will just start working on its own. Silly man! I’ll send him over to collect the coffee,” she said, leaving the counter to join her friends.
