Page 9 of Own the Eights
“Like faking a broken hearing aid?” she asked.
He chuckled. “If that means I get to feign ignorance to what the blue-haired brigade is jabbering on about and gaze at my wife like a lost puppy, then yes.”
“You truly are an eight, Mr. Gilbert,” she answered just as Becca’s voice cut across the shop.
“Hey, ladies! Georgie got it! She won the contest!”
Applause broke out from the seating area, and Georgie gave them her best curtsey bow, then froze.
She had a lot to do!
“I have to go! I’m expected at CityBeat in less than two hours, and I need to walk Mr. Tuesday, drop him off at home, change my clothes, then get downtown.”
“Don’t you worry about the shop,” Becca said, pressing her hands to her hips like she was ready to kick some bookshop ass. “I’ve got it covered, and I know Irene can help out anytime you need her.”
“And I can take Mr. Tuesday for a walk,” Mr. Gilbert offered.
Georgie patted her old friend’s hand. “Thank you for offering, but I think a little walk would do me good. I need to get my thoughts in order and take a second to process everything.”
At the mention of a walk, Mr. Tuesday procured his favorite slobbery ball from a basket of dog toys she kept behind the counter and began prancing at her feet.
“Wow,” she said, shell-shocked as she removed her apron then plucked his leash from a wall hook.
“Way to go, kiddo,” Mr. Gilbert added, before joining his wife and her needlework crew.
Becca shooed her toward the shop’s back door. “Go! Go!”
Georgie left the shop, leaned against the back door to get her bearings, then wiped a tear from her cheek. “Lizzy, Hermione, Jane, we did it, ladies,” she whispered to her imaginary trifecta, the three characters she loved so dearly. She’d lost count of how many times she’d rereadPride and Prejudice,Jane Eyre, and theHarry Potterseries, and these characters had become as real to her as any friend, maybe better, because she knew them inside and out.
She released a sharp breath when a wave of nausea hit her.
What if they asked her why she hadn’t found her eight? Her dear friend had married her eight, and she had thousands of emails from people who had found happiness using the Own the Eights method. Surely, that had to be enough.
But there was something else.
That email about meeting her teammates gnawed at her. The CityBeat founders were notorious for staging events and adding a surprising flair to anything they did.
But she’d won. Eccentric or not, they’d chosen her. This was her time to shine, and it had nothing to do with looks or weight or any shallow, superficial trait. Her mind. Her intelligence and her drive. That’s what got her to this point.
She inhaled a cleansing breath, and just as she was about to blow it out, releasing all her anxious energy, a squirrel shot down the alleyway. She glanced at the leash in her hand. The leash she’d forgotten to attach to Mr. Tuesday’s collar. And before she could even call out for him to stop, the squirrel chaser took off.
2
Jordan
“Ninety-six, ninety-seven…”
“I can’t do it, Jordan. I can’t get to one hundred, man.”
Jordan Marks easily held his push-up position and glanced at the young man next to him. Bird-like forearms shaking like rickety pipes and sweat streaming down his face, the guy struggled to lift himself back into a plank position.
“Look at me, Craig,” Jordan said, his muscles strong and engaged as he maintained perfect form in his own plank.
The guy turned to him, red-faced and about to pass out.
But there was no way in hell Jordan was going to allow him to give up or let him collapse onto the floor of Deacon CrossFit.
“Craig, take a deep breath and focus.”
