Page 79 of Own the Eights
“You’re even freaking out your dog,” Becca added with a sympathetic grin.
Georgie scratched between her sweet pup’s ears. Ironically, today marked eight days since she stormed out of the gala. Eight days since she’d had the taxi that she’d hailed to whisk her away stop at the market so she could buy the largest tube of vegan cookie dough they make. And eight days since she’d even glanced at her blog or anything online.
If somebody was owning the eights, it certainly wasn’t her.
She glanced at her watch, then patted Mr. Tuesday’s head. “I think it’s time for our run, boy.”
Mr. Tuesday perked up and scampered around her legs.
Becca pursed her lips. “Are you sure you want to do that 10K?”
Georgie blew out a weary breath. “Yes, I’m signed up, and it’s the last official CityBeat event. They can crown the Dannies or Jordan, and then I can be done with it all.”
“But you’re not that far—”
“No, no, no!” Georgie said, cutting off her friend. “I told you. I don’t want to know anything about the score or the blogs. I just want it to be over.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Becca replied with a mock salute.
Georgie switched out of her Birkenstocks and into her running shoes, then grabbed Mr. Tuesday’s leash and carefully fastened it to his collar. She’d started running the day after the gala. Determination or bullheadedness, or maybe it was her stupid longing to have some little piece of Jordan, she’d decided she’d take the time before the race to train and improve her stamina. It wasn’t pretty. A lovely elderly woman using a walker passed her on her run yesterday, but it didn’t matter. She may be the slowest runner on the planet, but she’d finish that damn race on her own.
She pulled her hair into a ponytail and turned to her friend. “I’m going to try and run all six point two miles today. Are you good to hold down the fort for a little while?”
“A little while? Georgie, I went on a run with you two days ago. You run a twenty-two-minute mile.”
Georgie frowned. “Is that bad?”
Becca shook her head. “Not if you’re a turtle.”
“Well, it’s almost the end of June. I’ll try to be back before Thanksgiving. How does that sound?” she asked, opening the door.
Becca chuckled. “I’ll be sure to save you some turkey.”
Georgie left her bookshop and inhaled the fresh air. It was a gorgeous Colorado day with the majestic mountains to the west and the Tennyson business district bustling with friends and families out perusing the shops and eateries. She and Mr. Tuesday, who had no qualms with her running speed, thank you very much, headed toward the park.
She’d never admit it to Becca or Irene, but she’d picked this time on purpose. She knew Jordan’s schedule and made sure to take her runs when he was training a client at Deacon CrossFit. And she didn’t dare run past the gym for two good reasons.
One, if she ran into Deacon, she might punch the arrogant asshat square in his meathead mouth. And two, as much as she’d like to say that she carried the same vitriol for Jordan, she didn’t. In fact, instead of forgetting the sole resident of Asshattery, she missed him more each day.
And here’s what really stung. She had no one to blame but herself for her broken heart. She’d abandoned her Own the Eights principles, and in the throes of the crazy Battle of the Blogs competition, she’d lost her bearings and allowed her attraction to Jordan to knock her off course.
But one thing still remained. Bills. Many, many past-due bills.
She pushed the thought aside and continued down the street when a car honked a few sharp beeps, then pulled up alongside her.
Jeez! She might be slow, but it wasn’t like she was holding up traffic! She was on the sidewalk, for Pete’s sake!
She glanced over just as the back seat’s dark tinted window rolled down.
“Georgiana! Pumpkin!”
Not even Michael Bolton could save her from the judgmental eye of Lorraine Vanderdinkle.
“What is it, Mom?” she asked, trying to speed up.
Oh, who was she kidding? This was her maximum pace.
“I’d like to speak to my daughter. I’ve sent you several emails, pumpkin.”
