Page 7 of Own the Eights
Georgie grabbed some mugs and set them on a tray. The bookshop included a simple café. Well, café was really stretching it. Behind the register, she had a coffee maker, doughnuts, and some homemade muffins. She’d dreamed of owning a store where patrons could enjoy browsing for books while sipping on a hot beverage or nibbling on a sweet treat. She’d hoped to expand the shop and build a dedicated space for it, along with a children’s book section, once she had a little extra cash.
Becca handed her a plate of muffins when Mr. Gilbert ambled up with the help of his cane.
“Sounds like you should hear back soon,” the man said with a sly twist to his lips.
Georgie set the items on the counter and stole a glance at the women, chatting while their needles dipped then emerged from their projects. “And I thought your hearing aid was out of commission.”
“I’ll take this over to the ladies,” Becca said, grabbing the tray.
Mr. Gilbert leaned in and tapped the small, beige device in his ear. “It has a habit of going out whenever we get together with Marjorie’s blue-haired brigade.”
“You’re terrible,” Georgie said, but her smile told a different story.
Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert had been a staple of her clientele. Old friends of her grandparents, the Gilberts dropped by at least a couple times a week. And while Mr. Gilbert played the role of the old grumbler, he always carried Marjorie’s purse, always held the door for her, and could often be caught gazing at her with a sentimental expression and the sweet hint of a smile.
“You’re the dating expert, Georgie. You, better than anyone, should know the value of silence in a relationship,” he countered, then gestured to the bulletin board on the wall, littered with layers of thank you letters and wedding photos of grateful Own the Eights believers who had followed her advice and found love with an eight.
She glanced at the board as a twinge of doubt twisted in her belly. But what about finding love herself? The truth was this; she was a dating expert who didn’t have time to date. But she pushed the thought aside. She’d worry about that once her bills were paid.
“Okay, spill the deets, Georgie,” Becca said, setting down the empty tray.
Georgie went back to twisting her apron tie. “From what I understand, they said that they’d notify the winner today. The CityBeat founders are running this themselves. They’re an interesting pair—a little eccentric, and everything they do always seems to have a twist.”
“But you’ve got to be a shoo-in for it, Georgie,” Becca said, tossing a few muffin crumbs to Mr. Tuesday. “You’ve got a ton of followers, and people are stopping in all the time to tell you they found love following the Own the Eights protocol. I mean, my own sister met her husband using it!”
Mr. Gilbert chuckled. “Protocol? It still amazes me that it takes books and blogs and apps for you youngsters to find the one. Do you know how long it took me to fall for Marjorie?”
Georgie knew this story. When her grandparents were still alive, and they’d get together with the Gilberts, after a glass of wine or two, Gene Gilbert often told the tale.
“Thirty seconds,” he said, not waiting for her to answer. “She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. She had the sweetest laugh, and I just knew without even a word spoken between us that she’d be the one. And sixty-two years later, she still is.”
Georgie patted the man’s hand. “Unfortunately, Mr. Gilbert, you and Marjorie are not the norm. Most guys out there are real—”
“Places, ladies! Places!” one of the women called out.
“What’s going on?” Georgie asked.
Mr. Gilbert chuckled. “I figured out why Marjorie’s needlework group changed the time of their weekly meet-up at your shop.”
Becca exchanged a knowing glance with Mr. Gilbert. “Yeah, it’s pretty—”
“Pretty what? Have I missed something?” Georgie asked with a frown. If some kind of funny business was going on near her business, she needed to know about it.
“Oh, you’ve missedsomething,Georgie. You’ve missed it the last three weeks, taking Mr. Tuesday out for a walk in the alley behind the shop the last couple of times this happened,” Becca added with a coy grin.
Georgie threw up her hands. “What happened? You’re starting to worry me, Becca.”
“Any minute, ladies!” a woman called with a giddy trill.
Mr. Gilbert glanced at his watch. “You’ll see for yourself in about fifteen seconds.”
Georgie scanned the front of the shop. All the women except for Marjorie were staring out the front window and onto the empty road.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t see anything that…” Georgie began, then froze as thesomethingBecca had referenced passed by the window, and her brain clicked into slow-motion mode.
Like a framed moving portrait, a man’s broad shoulders and shirtless, ripped torso appeared. Perfectly tanned skin wrapped his biceps and forearms, which looked damned near edible. If you were into that, not that she was, at all. Georgie tried to look away. Tried to think about anything other than muscles contracting and releasing as this Adonis of a man pumped his arms, driving forward on the pavement. A black hat sat on his head, pulled low, disguising his face, but not completely. A dark, perfectly groomed five o’clock shadow accompanied a strong jawline and the slope of a nose so perfect in its profile, plastic surgeons probably used this guy as a muse.
Her mouth grew dry. Her pulse kicked up. The air stilled as if she were trapped inside this moment, time, bending to lengthen an event only meant to last a few seconds.
